


Poison Heart

by Kami_del_Antro



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, OCxOC - Freeform, a little sidestory from the main plot of my guild wars 2 story, some nsfw, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-09-06 11:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16831954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_del_Antro/pseuds/Kami_del_Antro
Summary: Arlen was young when Morrissey chose him as his lover in the Nightmare. To escape from his embrace, he may never be able to stop running.





	1. Captured

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea after making sweet Arlen on a whim, and then the story got legs of its own and began running. I don't know if I'll update it frequently, but it's a fun and short one to write so I probably will.

One by one, the Nightmare initiates put the helpless prisioners in their blighted pods, preparing them to be reborn. Dressed in silk and gold, Morrissey, Knight of Decadence, supervised their work, bitting his lower lip in lustful anticipation. A Dark Vigil was to be celebrated that night at the Twilight Arbor, and they needed to ready up their sacrifices to the Nightmare. The recently kidnapped were lined up on the ground, struggling in their sleep, trying to resist the poison that ran through them, keeping them still as their minds raced to find a way out from their dark visions.

Morrissey stopped suddenly, as two initiates struggled to grab another sleeping sylvari. He was taller than most, strong and heavy, and his skin had a gleaming, obsidian-like quality to it. From time to time, fire ignited the thorns on his face and hair, as the initiates pushed him inside a pod which could barely contain him.

The Knight raised his hand.

“Hold on,“ he said, calm silk in his voice. He remembered that one. A young Soundless hunter he had grabbed himself. His own personal knife had made the deep dent on his shoulder. “Bring that one to me.“

The initiates exchanged an unamused look, but didn’t dare to disobey someone who outranked them. They brought the sleeping sylvari towards Morrissey, and he streched his hand out, caressing his cheek right bellow the thorns.

Arlen, he had said his name was Arlen. They had stripped him of his rifle and knifes, and from his leather coat. Morrissey lowered his hand, caressing his strong neck and broad shoulders, and his hard pectorals. Arlen frowned in his sleep, clenching his teeth.

“I want this one,“ he announced. “I want him for myself.“

Silence followed his words, as the initiates struggled to keep Arlen standing. Morrissey narrowed his eyes.

“Didn’t you hear me?“ he hissed, pointing towards a side corridor that lead to his chambers. “I want him! He will be my new plaything. Move!“

However, the initiates didn’t move an inch, suddenly fearful. Before Morrissey could berate them more, a voice that tried to be soft as a petal but was grating as nails on a chalkboard boomed in the chamber.

“And what right, my dear whore, you think you have to choose his destiny?“ the voice said. Morrissey couldn’t help but to tremble, as he turned to face Sariel herself. “These prisioners are mine to dispose of. Don’t confuse your responsibilities as supervisor for actual usefulness.”

The shadow of a despective laugh danced on the corners of Sariel’s mouth. Morrissey snarled at her, as Sariel’s Knights giggled behind her.

“I captured him, my Dame,“ Morrissey said, through clenched teeth. Sariel raised a brow, amused. “His destiny belongs to me.“

“His destiny belongs to the Grand Duchess, you little whore,“ she said, taking a step forward. Morrissey took a step back, flinching at the insult. “And only to her. You seem to think screwing a Duke or two somehow makes you important. You are sadly mistaken.“

The Knight of Decadence curled his hands in fists, glaring at Grand Duchess Faolain’s champion in defiance.

“I put my life on the line,” he snarled, trembling in anger. “I allowed to be used as bait. I brought these weakling as gifts to the Nightmare, to spread its reign over their simple minds. I deserve a reward. I want him.“

Sariel enjoyed toying with him, and Morrissey knew it. The Grand Duchess’ champion walked past him, holding Arlen’s chin up with disdain. Then, she walked around the sylvari and the initiates who, still, tried to hold him, now completely frozen in place upon Sariel’s menacing presence. And Morrissey clenched his teeth and bit the inner corners of his mouth as Sariel touched Arlen’s limp body, as someone would a piece of steak.

“He’s beautiful,“ she said, with a disgusted snarl. “No wonder you want him inside you so bad.“

Sariel’s Knights giggled along once more, as their Dame walked back past a humiliated Morrissey.

“Very well,“ she said, clapping her hands two times. “Give the whore what he wants! It will be amusing to see him trying to explain it to his high-ranked, very jealous lovers.“

Immediatly, the initiates dragged Arlen down the corridor Morrissey had pointed towards before. However, there was no victory or dignity in Morrissey’s quiet rage.

“Now, my Knights… and Morrissey,“ Sariel ironized. “The Grand Duchess awaits me in her chambers. Kill all remaining prisioners; we have enough sacrifices for tonight’s Dark Vigil.“

The Knights took out their weapons, and without hesitation killed the helpless, sleeping sylvari who still layed on the floor. As the bright, sap-like blood ran like a river to feed the blighted pods, Morrissey seethed in his rage, trying to console himself thinking about his newest plaything.

Arlen. The stoic Soundless hunter, with his beautiful eyes and luscious body. He would show him pleasures unknown to the Dreamers, he would show him the power, the beauty in the dark corners of the Dream. Morrissey would be his mentor, his savior, his lover.

He would mean everything to him. He would be his world. His Dearheart.


	2. Dearheart

Arlen’s eyes opened with a flutter of eyelashes, and he frowned at the dim, purple light. He wasn’t a stranger to the feeling of being hungover, but what was new to him was the fact that he couldn’t remember drinking anything with the Lionsguard this time. The roof above him was made of vines and leaves, plant-like as all sylvari constructions. But something -a smell, a sound, the wind itself- felt… off.

He didn’t notice the soft touch of silk on his naked chest, and the heavy perfume of unknown flowers, until a chuckle made him look down.

“I thought you were going to sleep forever, Dearheart,“ the unknown sylvari said, pink luminescense revealing his soft, delicate features. “Welcome back.”

 _Dearheart_. That word made Arlen pause. He stared blankly at the other sylvari, who entretained himself in caressing his chest with the sleeve of his silk tunic. It tickled. It felt kind of nice.

“Not much of a talker, are you, my sweet hunter?“ he said, chuckling once more. He lay down beside him, like a bored prince contemplating his favorite lover. Arlen followed his moves, expression still blank. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk at all. Maybe it’ll be better that way.“

He battered his eyelashes at him, with a crooked smile and his magenta eyes shimmering in anticipation.

“They call me Knight of Decadence,“ he said, stretching out a hand to caress his cheek. “But you, my Dearheart, can call me Morrissey.“

Suddenly, Arlen remembered. The hunt, the scared deer, the hurt sylvari, with his clothes torn and bloodied. His plea for help, those same eyes piercing deep into him. The knife on his shoulder, the poison. The darkness. The nightmares.

His expression turned cauteous. Morrissey noticed.

“You see,“ he said, licking his lips. “You and I are not so different. When I opened my eyes to this world, I knew the Dream wasn’t enough to contain me. I needed more. I needed to shed the ties of the Pale Mother. I aspired to something more.“

Arlen narrowed his eyes, still suspicious, but interested. Morrissey smiled briefly in victory.

“You’re one of the Soundless,“ he continued, snuggling closer like a tender lover. “You found your purpose in the simple things. I found mine in the quest of freeing us all from the lies of a foreign beast. We sylvari are meant for something more, don’t you think?“

To be completely honest, Arlen hadn’t thought of that. He wasn’t interested in it, either. Greatness sounded a lot like responsibility. Like the ties he was running away from. But Morrissey was beautiful, and his words were sweet like nectar. And he was, still, a little bit dizzy. The bedding they rested on was soft and comfortable, very different from the hammocks back at Weeping Isle.

Something in the air made him feel at ease all of the sudden. Maybe it was that heavy perfume Morrissey seemed to exude as a natural odor, as he explored his face with those soft, thin fingers of his. He touched his serrated jaw, his cheeks, came dangerously close of touching his lips. A very different fog began to cloud Arlen’s judgement, as Morrissey seemed to get closer and closer.

“I can give you a bigger purpose, my Dearheart, my hunter, my Arlen,” Morrissey whispered, his breath fresh and sweet between Arlen’s lips. “I can give you direction, an objective. I can give you all your heart desires. I can give you pleasure.”

Arlen pulled him closer. The feeling of silk on his skin was maddening, and the sweet perfume on Morrissey’s skin made him feel drunk once again. The only thing clear in his mind was to saciate the sudden hunger that Morrissey had awoken inside of him.

And Morrissey smiled on his lips, as Arlen climbed on top of him and began to tear away the silk, like the petals of a flower.

“I can give you so much pleasure, my Dearheart,“ he murmured, as Arlen kissed his neck. “You just need to give in.“


	3. Control

__

Not for the last time, Arlen struggled to wake up, glaring at the purple luminiscense that seemed to emanate from every wall, every leaf around him. It was always dark in Morrissey’s chambers, and both day and night melted into each other like needy lovers.

That smell that drove him insane was ever-present; his own skin seemed to reek of that sweet perfume that reminded him of his lover’s touch. He tried to clear his mind, but it was hard; especially when a soft sigh made him aware about Morrissey’s skinny body, nested between his arms.

Carefully, Arlen let him sleep in, getting up and gathering what he could find of his garments. Morrissey had gifted him a couple of beautiful daggers, very similar to his own knifes, and he hung them from his belt in a hurry. He didn’t really knew where he wanted to go, or why was he in such a hurry to run away. Arlen just knew, deep inside, he had to get away as soon as possible. Before his sleeping lover found out of his absence.

“Dearheart,“ murmured Morrissey, and Arlen froze in place. “Where are you going?“

The sylvari turned around, finding Morrissey sitting up on his bedding. His silky clothes were scattered around the room -as were his own-, and the only thing covering his skinny body was a thin bedsheet that insinuated his figure bellow. Noticing the scrutiny, the Knight of Decadence smiled, cocking his head to the side.

“Come.“

Arlen felt compelled to obey. He kneeled on the bed beside Morrissey, allowing him to touch his naked chest with his thin fingers.

“Strip.“

After a moment of hesitation, Arlen removed his leather pants once more, and left his daggers beside them on the floor. Morrissey kneeled in front of him, touching his hardened abs, going down to his legs, going up between them.

“You’re beautiful, my Dearheart,“ Morrissey whispered on his ear, his hands getting bolder. “You’re so beautiful.“

He kissed Arlen’s cheek, nibbling on his earlobe softly. Arlen closed his eyes, inhaling sharply when Morrissey’s skinny, soft hands reached for his inner tighs, and kept going up.

“My body belongs to you,” he continued, stroking the lenght of Arlen’s half-erect cock. “And your body belongs to me, in the Nightmare.“

A soft, magic wind passed through Arlen, and he felt another pair of skinny hands caressing his arms, until suddenly catching them on his back. He didn’t struggle; just lay down on the illusionary clone’s chest as Morrissey left a trail of kisses on his chest and abs.

“Moan for me, my love,” he muttered, as he grabbed Arlen’s dick and licked his lips in anticipation. “Let me know how much your desire burns.“

Once more, Arlen obeyed, out of his own will this time. He whined and moved, as Morrissey wasn’t one to hesitate to put his dick on his mouth. He licked and sucked with great expertise, enjoying the feeling of destroying what little sanity could be left in his lover.

“I love the feeling of you in my mouth, Dearheart,“ whispered the clone on Arlen’s ear, still grabbing his arms with an iron grip. “You taste so good, you’re so warm and firm and big.“

Arlen clenched his teeth, fucking his lover’s mouth with abandon. Morrissey allowed it, moaning softly and gripping the bedding between his fingers, anticipating what was to come and arching his back in pleasure at the thought.

"Although," Morrissey's clone suddenly murmured, nibbling on the base of Arlen's neck. "You were trying to disobey me again, my sweet Arlen."

The pleasure was building up, and blood rang on Arlen's ears as he began to become undone. He was so close. And Morrissey kept on sucking, driving him off the edge with a whimper.

"You won't come until you're ordered to, my love," he heard Morrissey's voice from so far away. It was almost an illusion. "Maybe then you'll stop being so reckless."

As soon as he said it, Arlen felt a cold shiver and forced his eyes open. He met Morrissey's gaze, his real gaze, predatory and dangerous as he sucked, and sucked, and sucked. And even if the pleasure was too much to handle, Arlen found he couldn't finish. For his lover was a powerful mesmer, one who knew how to use his powers to bend down his will.

The rocking of his hips became desperate, as the moans filled his own ears. The tension of his body became unbearable, and the pleasure slowly, steadily, became painful. Arlen felt as he could cry, denied from the satisfaction of finishing, but being pumped with exquisite cruelty by his lover. If he was lost in the sensations before, now he was terribly aware of every move, every touch, every smell and sound.

"Look at you," Morrissey murmured, locking eyes with Arlen, caressing his chest and abs with his skinny fingers. "My sweet hunter, my beloved Soundless, reduced to a whimpering mess. You've never looked so beautiful before."

Was he talking or was he using his powers to speak directly to Arlen's clouded mind? He couldn't tell. The sensations were overwhelming, and Arlen felt the pressure building up, denied of release. It wasn't pleasureable anymore. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, to escape his body, to faint, maybe, to escape Morrissey's merciless torture.

With a wet, sloppy sound, Morrissey finally stopped sucking on him, and Arlen trembled as his mouth hanged open, a trail of saliva dripping down. He knew his lover wasn't done with him. Not until he spoke the words and set him free.

"Have you learned your lesson yet?" he questioned, getting up only to straddle on Arlen's hips. He could only pant in response. "Answer me, you beautiful Nightbloom."

Softly, painfully, Morrissey started to grind his ass on Arlen's crotch. Arlen arched up in response, struggling futilessly against the clone's grip.

"Cat got your tongue, my love?" Morrissey muttered, crawling up Arlen's body, getting close to his lips and licking them. "Or you simply don't know what you did to wrong me?"

Be it because of a spell or his state, Arlen couldn't speak. Only to glance lovingly between half-closed lids, mouth dry and body eager, at the cruel eyes that pierced like thorns. Morrissey caressed his cheek, breathing over his parted lips that begged to be kissed.

"I'll give you what your body craves, Dearheart," he muttered, perking up above him. "But you will have to beg for release."

He slowly lowered his body, allowing Arlen to enter as he growled in confused pain and pleasure. As he got used to the intrusion, Morrissey cocked his head to the side, pondering with false innocence.

"Am I being too cruel, my love?" he suddenly wondered, glancing over the vein-like trails that pumped beneath Arlen's skin as he jolted his hips up, trying to find the lost pleasure. "Or are you being too stubborn? I don't like to think I'm cruel. I'm just a good teacher; taking you by the hand and guiding you towards a deeper darkness. Isn't it romantic?"

Slowly, steadily, Morrissey moved his hips up and down, riding his lover with a parody of patience and love. Arlen felt his sanity slipping away, as he futilessly thrusted upwards to meet him in the air, as his monologue became more breathless, less coherent.

"Let yourself go," Morrissey muttered, licking his lips. "Give yourself to me."

He moaned and clawed at his chest, as his clone became less corporeal, more like an undefined entity of pure magic. And still, Arlen wasn't able to free himself; something more than magic or brute force kept him from freeing himself, as Morrissey lost control and rode him mercilessly now, while stroking his own hardness. It was a sight to behold; the bright pink luminescence radiating from his skin, pulsating faster as his breathing became erratic. His eyes, half-closed and tender now, replacing the cruel ice of his gaze. His skinny body taking him so deep, that his facade shattered like his illusions, as Arlen felt suddenly free to catch him in his arms and bury his nails on his back, recieving a delicious gasp in response, and the tightening around his throbbing cock.

Morrissey came with a cry, collapsing on his lover's chest and panting heavily. Arlen trembled at each pulse of Morrissey's ass around him, sucking him in, but unable to make him cum as well.

After what felt like hours, the Nightmare courtier lifted himself from Arlen, making him jolt once more because of the overstimulation. With a sneer, he glanced over his body; a wreck of trembles and stained with his own thick, amber-like cum.

"And you still won't apologize," he sighed, shaking his head. "Such a masochist."

He lay beside Arlen, stroking his throbbing cock with a single finger, making him cry out. He raised a brow.

"I'll have to train you better," he said, caressing him once more, enjoying his cries for release. "Others would not be this patient."

After careful consideration, Morrissey gave him a kiss on the cheek, getting close to his ear.

"You're now allowed to cum," he murmured, slightly touching Arlen's cock once more.

His release felt like a tidal wave; he arched himself and rocked his hips upwards, and everything turned white and ethereal. A tingling sensation overcame his hands and legs, and a thick fog clouded his brain in a fraction of a second. Arlen felt himself drift off, powerless, weakened, and suddenly so tired he felt his body sinking on the bedding. No more sense of dreading, no more need to escape. Only the heaviness of his limbs, the violent satisfaction of finishing, and the distant words he could hear, or maybe just imagine, Morrissey told him as he drifted away.

_I don't want them to take you away from me._

_You're mine, I'm yours, in the Nightmare._

_Forever._


	4. Runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This started as a writing challenge on a facebook page, so I had to translate it and edit it a bit to fit the overall tone of the story. Also now I'm better at editing gw2 screens so I'll go back to the other ones and to more interesting things with them.

“Where do you think you're going, my love?”

Morrissey’s voice was, as always, soft and silky, but his words cut like icy blades. Arlen stopped dead on his tracks, closing his eyes for a second before turning to face him.

The sylvari was the only light in a condemned world, standing in the midst of the cursed grove. His own luminescence reflected on his golden arm and ankle guards, and his chromatic, silky clothes -whose feel on his hands as he peeled them off Arlen could recall without effort- gleamed like dew on the morning sun.

Echoes from a world that was unknown to Arlen, since a very long time ago. Since Morrissey had chosen him to be his, on that fateful night of hunt and disgrace.

“Are you not going to answer me?” muttered Morrissey then, with a dangerous half-smile and an unnecessarily lustful hip sway as he approached. “I could call the Wardens, my sweet sapling. I could make them tear you apart, thorn by thorn, only to relish in your agony.”

Once in front of him, Morrissey met Arlen’s eyes, furiously digging for a spark of something he didn't quite liked. And then smiled; a smile full of poisoned thorns that Arlen had learned to fear. Despite his physical advantage, he knew Morrissey was far from harmless.

“Ah, but I would never do such thing,” the courtier cooed, stretching out a hand to cradle Arlen’s cheek, caressing him tenderly. “I simply love you too much, you see. You are my life, and I’m yours. We belong each other in the Nightmare, my sweet Night Bloom. Forevermore.”

Each time Morrissey spoke of eternity, Arlen felt a dead weight sinking in his stomach. “Forever” was such a long time; way too long to live in the shadow of the Nightmare Court. Suddenly, in a wave of panic, Arlen spoke for the first time in what seemed like aeons.

“No,” he sentenced, making even Morrissey hesitate upon hearing the depths and firmness of his voice. “No. I want to see the sun. I want to chase deers in the forest. I want to do what I used to, before ending up here.”

It seemed like centuries had passed since he had seen blue skies above him. In the Twilight Arbor, shadows reigned even in the brightest of days.

Morrissey blinked, regaining his composure after his previous surprise. He narrowed his eyes slightly, softly shaking his head in disapproval.

“You almost sound like a Dreamer,” he giggled, scorning him as if he was a naughty child caught misbehaving. “And a Dreamer you are no more. The Nightmare welcomed you in its embrace with open arms. You should be nothing but grateful.”

“But I never-...” Arlen tried to retort, but in a swift movement Morrissey put one of his golden, poisonous daggers up to his throat. His pink glare was full of suspicion, and his demeanor was, suddenly, not as calm and apologetic anymore.

“Don't you dare to contradict me, my love,” he hissed. “Or I’ll gut you like a pig.”

Arlen stood quiet and still, feeling the cold touch of the blade on his throat everytime he breathed. Those daggers never really left his mind. Too small to fight, but enough for a weak courtier to stand his ground and run away, once the poison did its job. Or to trap and ensnare young, careless Soundless hunters, making them drift away in unquiet dreams.

“Now, my love, my hunter, my Arlen,” sighed Morrissey, suddenly tender despite his drawn weapon. “Let’s go back to my chambers. We don’t want the Grand Duchess to find you marauding around her domains, don’t we?”

Arlen stood still, a chill going down his back. He knew that if he were to go back to those rooms of sweet perfume and forbidden pleasures, he may never come out. He felt a sudden flame inside of him; like never before, he rejected the idea of coming back to such violent ecstasy. One clear thought appeared in his mind, clouded only by its urgency: he needed to escape, now that he was able to.

Morrissey’s hand suddenly clasped on his chin with an iron grip, making him look at him in the eye. Something, deep inside his gaze, made him frown in disapproval. Arlen, for once, met his glare, defiant.

“Arlen,” Morrissey called coldly, breaking the uneasy silence and pressing his dagger further into the Soundless’ throat. “You need to come with me. If a Duke finds you, they’ll turn you to the Nightmare- by force. Understand this: I’m the only thing between you and a blighted pod. If you don't come right now, they’ll-...”

With a sudden, brute move, Arlen grabbed Morrissey’s hips, pulling him close together, feeling his tiny frame between his arms. The Courtier seemed frail and surprised to be nested on his chest, but his surprise made way to a lustful embrace once Arlen lowered his eyes to his lips, full and always eager to devour him.

Their kiss was a storm; messy and loud, hands clinging to clothes, eager to peel them off. But what Morrissey thought was an act of surrender was, in fact, the last act of war. Because as the Courtier melted into his embrace, Arlen’s hands were busy tracing the curves of his back, searching for the precise position between his shoulder blades, so prominent on his thin frame. And, as Morrissey began to lower his dagger from Arlen’s neck, the young Soundless hunter clenched the hilt of that other golden dagger on his hand, that dagger coated in poison, as were Morrissey’s toxic kisses.

The Courtier cried out in pain, the sound dulled by Arlen’s lips. He tried to fight back and use his dagger, but Arlen was faster; he suddenly turned him around to grab his arms, feeling his desperate struggle as the blade went even deeper on his back. He had to cover his mouth as Morrissey arched his back against him, dropping his blade and clawing at his arms in desperation, trying to free himself from Arlen’s embrace.

The Nightmare poison, however, cared not about the divide between Courtiers and Soundless. And as his cries became softer and his struggling became weaker, Morrissey’s eyes, furiously trying to look for someone, something to help him, closed with a flutter of his long eyelashes, his struggle turning into weak spasms as he finally collapsed in Arlen’s chest, deeply sunk in unquiet dreams, as so many were before by his own hands.

Arlen hadn’t noticed that his breath went up to a trembling gasping until he felt the weight of his lover on his arms. For a moment he couldn’t move; unable to conceive what had just transpired. He looked around, as a rushing feeling overcame him. There was no one around to see his crime. There was no one to stop him. The last barrier, the last obstacle between him and his freedom, lay on his arms, his breathing hinging up everytime some unpleasant images overcame his dreams. Vaguely, the Soundless pondered what could he dream of, what could instill fear and dread on a heart full of poison. What would the Nightmare’s nightmares look like.

But such was no time to ponder. He carefully removed the dagger; its short blade wasn’t enough to cause real damage, but still some golden, sap-like blood stained Morrissey’s luxurious clothing as Arlen lay him to rest on the ground. He thought for a moment, staring at the almost pathetic frame of that skinny Courtier defeated, before placing his daggers close by, staging a battle that hadn’t take place for the Wardens of the cursed grove to find.

He then took a step back, contemplating the sleeping sylvari. So beautiful as pink light illuminated every crevice of his body, so frail with his eyes closed, dreaming. And so full of hatred, and envy, and an unfathomable darkness.

Even as he ran towards freedom, towards the light and fresh air of the forest outside the Twilight Arbor, Arlen couldn’t help but to crave the sweet feeling of Morrissey’s body on his arms, of his lips on his lips. As he finally was able to tear his bindings once more, Arlen couldn’t stop himself from trembling in bittersweet delight.


	5. Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! I'm glad I finished this before I had to run.

It wasn’t dramatic, or upsetting at all. It was, in fact, disheartening in its banality. An uncomfortable situation, perhaps. Or perhaps not even that - just a tiny annoyance, a spec in the vastness of the jungle that surrounded the scene. The night was clear and the air was fresh inside the caverns, with moonrays finding their way through secret passages above. Arlen didn’t think he had a specially sensitive side, but could admire the sheer beauty of it all, breathe it in.

Now, of course, he wasn’t sure of what to think about himself anyway.

A rustle in the leaves made him retreat to the shadows once more, but only for a moment. The danger wasn’t imminent, so after a brief breather, Arlen peeked from the foliage once more. In the darkness, a Sylvari made her way towards a clearing, advancing through the thorny vines and poisonous pods. She seemed only slightly agitated, but unafraid. If anything, she seemed excited.

From the shadows, deeper in the cavern, another sylvari walked towards her. Her demeanor changed; the barely visible smile of contempt was replaced by stern seriousness, and a tremble of her hands was met with a disdainful look by her partner. He was heavily armored, and a cruel whip rested on his hip.

“They’re hypnotized,” she announced, a quick bow obscuring her features. “And they’re ready for you, my Knight.”

He chuckled, as some high-pitched laments came from the vine prisons beside the pair. It seemed like the Skritt were finally waking up from their slumber, confused, and spellbound. Arlen could only see some fur patches, glass-like eyes, the quick movement of a hairless tail through the vines bellow.

“These simple creatures will be enough for the converts to play with,” the Knight said, pleased. The other Sylvari lowered her shoulders, relieved. “Their minds are easy enough to break. I’ll need you to bring Soundless scum tomorrow, and if they’re up to the task, we’ll try our hands at Dreamers next.”

“Yes, my Knight,” the Sylvari replied, bowing deeply once more. “Anything else?”

The Knight paused, staring at her. His lips were suddenly a fine line, and as she raised her head again, her gaze was met with a cold, furious glare. She backed up fast, knowing better than to upset someone who could end her in an instant, on a whim. Only then, he chuckled once more, turning his back on her.

“That would be all, my dear Fascinator,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “You can go now.”

Only for a moment she stared at the Knight’s back turned to her. The space between his helmet and his back, a siren’s song. The sword she carried with her, the final note of it. But she huffed through gritted teeth, nodding and keeping her anger, her hate, for another day. A day where she would shatter her bindings. A day where she would be the one to instill fear in his heart. A day she would be free.

As she left, Arlen was surprised of how little he felt. As he loaded his rifle and took a knee, preparing his shot, he felt almost confident in his lack of feeling. His breathing was steady, his aim, perfect. The Knight took a malignant joy in watching the helpless Skritt struggle to regain consciousness, and under his helmet his face was plainly visible. A vanity act, perhaps.

Through the crosshair, Arlen could see every detail of his ornate armor, of his distressingly wide smile. The Skritt lamentations were louder as the spell grew weaker, but weren’t enough to distract him. He took a deep breath, his surroundings softly illuminated with red light that poured out of every twist of his hair, every thorn of his face. And as he exhaled, slowly, he took the shot.

He wasn’t aware of how he became such a good shot. He pondered that, maybe, his past as a hunter left him with some residual, instinctive knowledge about the ins and outs of killing, painlessly, in a single shot. The bullet left with a loud bang, and as the Knight raised his eyes -light blue, bright as the sky on a sunny spring day-, Arlen could feel his surprise. His fear. He could almost hear his thoughts, racing to find an explanation, a reason.

But there was no anger, nor revenge, on Arlen’s quiet determination. On his emotionless gaze, there was a lack of something the Knight could not measure, or begin to understand. Amber-like blood splattered the vines in front of him, his ornate helmet flying off his head into the darkness. The only thing breaking the silence of death were the oblivious skritt, shifting and crying out in response to the bang.

The job was done. As he climbed down the vines to collect his proof -that ornate, heavy helmet that had flown back, deeper into the caves-, Arlen barely even felt satisfied, or even relieved, about the outcome. And that lack of emotion, as he passed by the limp body of one of his own kind, made ripples in his calm like a stone in a pool.

Wasn’t he supposed to feel something, anything? Wasn’t he supposed to feel vindicated, avenged in some way? It had taken a while for him to process he was heading into one of the dens of the Nightmare once again - this time as a hunter instead of a prey. And yet, now that it had dawned on him, as he contemplated the empty helmet on the ground, he felt something close to disappointment. There wasn’t any dramatic, emotional moment of reckoning. There wasn’t even the fear of being found once more. There was only the methodical calmness of the hunt, and he could go through the motions without hesitation, even if the target was so alike himself. So alike Morrissey.

The shrieking of one of the Skritt managed to distract him, making him turn on his heels. If he was found, he would be in trouble, no doubt. And the Fascinators who had hypnotized the Skritts were not far away from his position. If the Nightmare Courtiers were to find the body of their Knight, they would sound the alarm - not a good situation to be in. There was no other choice but to shut the Skritt up, in any way possible.

So he strutted towards one of the cells, parting open the doors made of dried up vines with the butt of his gun, and raising it once more, staring down those beady eyes through the crosshair.

They were all panting, heavily, laying on the ground and reacting, but not acting, upon his approach. Some Skritt -those more aware of their situation, but still not fully conscious- cowered in fear, trembling. Others only managed enough strength to stare at him, little, wet noses trembling, sniffing. Others were clearly dead.

“Our house… our house now?” one Skritt chripped, confused and fidgety. “This is home now, yes?”

Arlen’s lips parted open, and he froze in place, rifle still up and ready. The Skritt were starting to move, slowly breaking out of the spell the Fascinators had put in them, and they all looked at the Sylvari with growing awareness.

“Shiny?” one muttered, curled up on the ground. “Big plant bring us shiny?”

“Not shiny…” other said, sniffing out. “Looks like boom-boom stick.”

The words ‘boom-boom stick’ propagated like fire in dry grass. The Skritts grew restless, chirping and yelling and squealing with increasing intensity, as Arlen’s eyes shifted from one to another, unable to focus. He wasn’t there to kill them. He had _thought_ about killing them, but only as an easy-way-out. Was it an easy-way-out, thought? He wasn’t so sure now. Those beady eyes judged him and gave him terrified glances, as they squealed and perched on the vine walls of the cell behind them, trying to escape.

“Mean plants will kill us!” yelled a Skritt, and her yelling was echoed by others as then clinged to the walls.

“They kill us and hurt us, ouch, ouch, ouch!” yelled another.

“Bad plants! Bad plants!” yelled yet another one, and a multitude of voices filled the caverns with desperate echoes.

 _By the Tree_ , Arlen thought. Had he really been about to kill them? Those tiny, annoying, rat-like beings who ran like ants after stepping on their nest? Those scared, terrified Skritt, deceived, enchanted, took from their homes and lives and enslaved by the Nightmare?

His hands were shaking as the yelling got louder. And then, a deeper, Sylvari, voice broke through the noise.

“The Knight of Weeping is dead!” he yelled, noticing Arlen as he turned towards the noise, startled. “A Dreamer broke into our lair, brothers and sisters! He’s-...”

As if they had a mind of their own, Arlen shot the Courtier without hesitation. His breathing was uneven and his hands were trembling, but the bullet hit him in the chest all the same, propelling him backwards. Upon hearing the bang, the Skritt fell silent.

Arlen glanced over them, frozen in place, chests pounding and eyes wide open. He pointed towards the exit with his head.

“Let’s go,” he muttered, feeling suddenly very clumsy. “I’ll get you all out of here.”

The Skritt doubted for a second, suspicious about his sudden change of heart. But after exchanging a look, and upon hearing the approach of several more Courtiers advancing towards them at their fallen comrade’s call, they were quick to grab the wounded, and thorny vines and rocks to defend themselves.

They didn’t get very far before they were intercepted by a volley of arrows and a group of courtiers and thorn hounds, growling and rabid. Arlen stopped, raising his rifle once again, before a known face caught his eye. It was the Sylvari he had seen talking to the Knight of Weeping; that same Sylvari who yearned for fair retribution. Her eyes were big, almond-like, and she seemed surprised to see another of her own kind, untainted by the Nightmare, responsible for the death of someone she despised so much, but yet was unable to kill by herself.

A yellow, sunlike light emanated from her, as she evaluated the situation; the armed warrior in front of her, the Skritt threatening them with vines and rocks, her former, cruel master, dead at last. Arlen thought, for a second, that maybe, just maybe, they were not so different after all. Maybe there was a chance for someone so profoundly changed, so deeply damaged.

But her surprise turned into a glare, as she unsheated her sword and pointed towards the escaping group, a slow, power-hungry smile growing across her face.

“You will regret killing my Knight, Dreamer,” she snarled, summoning clones of herself to fight. “Cut those weeds out! The new Knight of Weeping commands you!”

Arlen put down his weapon, letting the rifle hang on his back. In its place, he took his daggers -golden, ornate daggers, the daggers of a nobleman, or a Courtier-, ready to fight at close quarters. This time, he needed to feel life leaving the body of his enemy. This time, his fight was one of vindication.

...

The silence of the jungle, right before dawn, was broken when the Wardens shoved Arlen to the ground with a thump. He hit his already sore knees on the dirt floor of the main Sylvari building of Watchfull Source, letting out a low grunt, but without resisting. A Seraph Captain, a Sylvari Hunter, and a very sleepy Asura Peacemaker exchanged looks upon their unwilling guest, as the Wardens saluted with their fists to their chests.

“We captured this Sylvari sneaking out of Joy’s End,” one of the Wardens explained, glaring at Arlen, who didn’t raise his eyes from the ground. “We think he might be a spy.”

“Then why bring him here?” asked the Seraph, stepping closer to the trapped Sylvari. “Why not end him right away?”

“He doesn’t…” the other Warden interjected, stopping to think what do say next. He then locked eyes with the Sylvari Hunter, asking for help. “He doesn’t _feel_ right.”

The Peacemaker interrupted himself mid-yawn, raising one ear towards the Sylvari. She lowered her leather mask, kneeling in front of Arlen and waiting, staring down at him with eyes only slightly slanted. After a moment of hesitation, Arlen looked at her, magenta eyes shimmering softly as the night ended and the sky cleared outside.

Both the Captain and the Peacemaker exchanged a puzzled look, as the Hunter and Arlen had a silent dialogue in front of them. The Sylvari suddenly frowned, cocking her head to the side.

“Something’s wrong, Roisinmurr?” the Seraph muttered, a hand on her sword’s hilt. Once again interrupted mid-yawn, the Peacemaker raised both of his ears now, taking a step back.

“I’m not paid enough to deal with this… flora problem,” he muttered, frustrated. Roisinmurr hushed him, taking one more long look at Arlen’s eyes before raising up.

“Captain Renata, Peacemaker Bruntt,” she announced, still suspicious. “I don’t believe this Sylvari is from the Nightmare, despite having their stink all over him.”

Arlen blinked, staring at the trio blankly. Bruntt huffed, impatient to go back to his quarters.

“What do you mean, you don’t ‘think’ he’s one of the evil ones of your kind?” he questioned, crossing his tiny arms over his chest. “We can’t manage this outpost with guesses, as educated as they might be!”

Ignoring the Asura, Roisinmurr looked down on Arlen once more, cautious.

“Are you one of the Soundless?” she asked softly. After a brief pause, Arlen nodded. “What is your business so far away from the Weeping Isle?”

“You had a problem with the Nightmare Court,” Arlen suddenly said. “I took care of it.”

“You’re here to claim the reward?” Renata questioned, frowning slightly. “You did it on your own?”

Arlen paused once more, frowning while he pondered about the question. Then, nodded once again. Bruntt rolled his eyes.

“And you happen to have the proof of your deeds, don’t you?” he remarked, snidely.

Raising his eyes to the Asura, Arlen was about to nod, only to then pause to think again. He bit his lip, frowning as he remembered, and then slowly shook his head.

“Now that’s rich!” the Asura exclaimed, turning towards the Hunter and the Captain. “I believe your Nightmare detector is malfunctioning, my vegetable friend. We should dispose of this liar at once, or he’ll-...”

Bruntt interrupted himself, raising both of his ears once more. Renata and Roisinmurr heard it too; the sound of rustling bushes outside the building, the chatter and yelling of shrill voices, the protest of the outside Wardens being shoved around. The Wardens who brought Arlen unsheathed their swords in alert, but Arlen seemed as puzzled as the rest as the reason for all the commotion.

“Holy Dwayna, what’s that?” muttered Renata, when after much chatter and rustling, the noises headed their way. Lots of dark, tiny, fast creatures surrounded the building; but as Bruntt and Renata prepared their weapons, Roisinmurr forced her eyes in the rising sun, at parts amused and at parts confused.

Loud and confused, a group of Skritt entered the building, shoving the Wardens aside as they strutted towards Arlen. Bruntt and Renata exchanged a look once more, as Roisinmurr’s frown turned into a big smile.

“We lost good plant with boom-boom stick!” one Skritt said, sniffing around. “But we found it, yes!”

“We found good plant! Good plant friend of Skritt!” another one exclaimed, as the other Skritt chattered and celebrated.

“What is the meaning of this… infestation?” muttered Bruntt, but Renata examined the Skritt carefully and let her jaw drop.

“Those wounds…” she said, kneeling down to examine a very nervous Skritt. “These creatures were captured by the Nightmare Court, no doubt.”

“They were taken from the suburbs of Skrittburg,” added Roisinmurr, nodding towards her companions. “They were the reason we raised a bounty to hunt down the Knight of Weeping.”

Upon the mention of the dead Courtier, the Skritt booed and shook their little fists. Renata glanced towards Arlen with barely restrained curiosity, and Bruntt seemed reluctant to show how impressed he was.

“Is that proof enough?” muttered Arlen then, no hints of sarcasm on his expression. Roinsinmurr sighed, still smiling.

“I guess it is,” she said, gesturing towards one of the Wardens who contemplated the scene with confusion. He hurried towards a nearby desk, taking a bag full of coins, and giving it to the Sylvari Hunter. “Here’s your reward. We’re sorry about the inconvenience; we have to be careful out here, so close to the Nightmare.”

Arlen stood up, taking the money and keeping his thoughts to himself. Dreamers had a tendency to confuse all mind silence with sorrow, and all Soundless with Courtiers. Still, he had more pressing issues to attend; he nodded towards Roinsinmurr, who nodded back, and left the outpost surrounded by his Skritt companions.

“You like shiny stuff, don’t you?” he suddenly asked, as the Wardens still gave the group puzzled looks. The Skritt cheered in delight.

“Shinies! We love, yes, shinies, please!” said one; the first one to wake up and see Arlen back in the cage. He nodded silently, stopping and taking out his daggers.

“Are these shiny enough?” he asked. An awed silence surrounded him.

“Yes! So pretty! So shiny!” the skritt said, jumping up and down.

“They’re yours.”

He kneeled down, giving the twin, golden, ornate daggers to the very eager Skritt. Those daggers he had carried out of the Twilight Arbor after leaving his own, steel daggers behind. The daggers of a Courtier; the ones Morrissey had gifted to him, as a token of affection.

As he waved the Skritt goodbye, he wondered if he was ever going to stop letting go from his past. If, someday, he would be able to leave it all behind.


	6. Asura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a while, but I'm here.  
> I'm writing like other 5 stories in paralell and that... wasn't the best idea I've ever had.

Leader Plixx was pleased. Her experiments were running smoothly, the parameters were normal, and the screaming had reduced in a very favorable 50% since the last batch of test subjects. Her assistants were more resilient as well, and were far less eager to try and steal her research since the new golem arrivals - with a power core modified by her to make them starve if they dared to disobey, or somebody changed their programming.

Her new allies were a, surprisingly, welcome addition as well. She preferred to work alone, of course, but the steady supply of test subjects was welcome, as she was sure the threat of being surrendered to her was a more than effective counter-revolutionary method, reducing the likeness of rebellion by, at least, a good 70%. It almost seemed like there could be something like a mutually beneficial relationship between superior life forms (that is to say, asura), and the rest of the world, as long as they all worked for the betterment of the superior beings (as previously mentioned, asura).

As she paced around the lab, her pleased smile made her workers nervous, as it should be. Leadership and compromise were good motivators, but nothing could even compare to fear in terms of efficiency. Only a glance over her shoulder, piercing a lazy worker with her reflective, orange eyes, and they would increase productivity on an astounding 90% for, at least, thirty minutes.

Oh, how pleased she was. At least, until the emergency alarm rang through the halls of her lab.

Plixx turned sharply towards her crewe. Not one dared to glance back at her.

“What does this means?” she sneered.

After some murmurs and some shoving around, two asura pushed a third one towards her, making him stumble and almost fall down to her feet. Plixx stared him down, as he gulped down a lump on his throat.

“Will you kindly offer an explanation?” Plixx demanded.

“That’s… it’s just the intruder alert,” he explained, playing with his hands. “It activates every time a non-asuran-...”

“I know!” Plixx roared. The asura immediately shut up. “I invented it!”

It was a lie. She had stolen it from a very paranoid Opticarium crewe investigator. But she had perfected it, and that was all that counted.

“I-I’m sorry, Leader Plixx,” muttered the asura, making himself small. “What I wanted to say is that, since our allies have become more… eclectic in nature, sometimes the intruder detector goes a bit crazy.”

The room went silent. The asura gulped down another lump, and all the other crewe members took a step back, not wanting to receive the fallout of the explosion that was about to take place.

“Are you insinuating  _ my _ device, the one  _ I _ invented,” sneered Plixx, curling her four-fingered hands in fists. “Might be… faulty?”

“No!” the asura was quick to add, sweating. “I-I’m just saying… the parameters, uh… the AI might need some… some tweaking, maybe?”

“And why would  _ my _ device need some TWEAKING?” Plixx yelling echoed through the halls of the lab, as the asura closed his eyes and hoped for the best.

“Because the new batch of test subjects seems to be here already,” he explained, pointing towards the room’s only entrance.

Plixx looked over her shoulder, almost -almost- surprised to see a tall, dark figure cut against the red lights. It was a tall sylvari, dark skin and thorny face and hair, who seemed to move without making any noise whatsoever. He seemed surprised to be staring down so many asura at once, surveying the room with his shiny, magenta eyes. Plixx thought he was a perfect specimen; strong, able to endure tests with ease.

“You took your time, you sentient flora,” Plixx complained, walking up to him to greet him. “The newest subjects should have arrived two days ago. What took you so long?”

The sylvari blinked. It seemed as if, even for one of his kind, he wasn’t very bright. Plixx sighed.

“Turn the alarm off,” she ordered. Three asura scrambled to fulfill her commands, as she kept observing the unknown sylvari. “So, what test subject have you brought me today?”

Once again, the sylvari blinked. Plixx sighed deeply.

“The critters you and your… association gather for me, you eggplant,” she scolded, impatiently tapping the floor with her foot. “Where are them? Or did you lose them?”

“I guess I did,” the sylvari muttered, expression still blank. The asura gasped and muttered, and some even stepped back, like preparing for an explosion.

And an explosion was about to occur; Plixx could feel her blood boiling, as she began making a shrill noise, as a tea kettle. The sylvari frowned at her, cocking his head to the side, trying to understand how on earth did asura work.

“I told your kind not to bother coming here if you weren’t able to provide subjects,” she shrieked, her voice getting more high-pitched as she got angrier. “Unless you want me to split open your head to find out if your neural connections are firing at a sufficient speed… if you have  _ any _ .”

The other asura observed the exchange as if it was an golem tennis match; close enough not to miss any interesting stroke, but far enough not to be splattered with oil upon the inevitable destruction of one of the competitors. And just like in an especially tense serve, they held their breath and stared at the sylvari, who, against best judgement, seemed unafraid. If anything, he seemed slightly confused. Curious, even, as the shrill sound Plixx emitted got louder.

Finally, the sylvari shrugged.

“I don’t want that,” he stated, looking away. Plixx was as stunned as her crewe.

“You don’t want what,” Plixx interrogated, momentarily unable to process the answer.

“To have my head split open,” the sylvari explained, blinking repeatedly. The asura gasped, as Plixx regained her composure and, at the same time, her levels of rage.

“Unless you provide me with test subjects,” she threatened, stepping closer and not minding the height difference. “You have no saying about that, seedbrain.”

Upon one gesture of the crewe leader, red and black golems began their approach. Four metal contraptions surrounded the sylvari; two from behind, and two at each side. After taking a quick note of the number of golems, the sylvari nodded quietly to himself, turning towards Plixx once again.

“I can’t let you do that,” he said, unsheathing his sword. Plixx chuckled.

“I’m afraid your demands are irrelevant right now,” she said, as the golems at each side pointed their detachable arms towards the sylvari, and the two behind continued their approach. “This will send a clear message to your Nightmare friends, I’m sure; don’t mess with Leader Plixx.”

For a second, the sylvari seemed even more puzzled. He frowned at Plixx, looking then at himself as if he was searching for something he had lost. However, the metallic joints of the golems behind him made him raise his guard once more.

“Containment-protocols-initiated,” the golems announced. “Welcome-newest-test-subject. You-will-be-subjected-to-horrible-pain-in-the-name-of-science.”

“I said I can’t let you do that,” the sylvari warned once more. “I’m tired of being captured.”

“And I said,” Plixx announced, making a gesture with her arm. “It’s irrelevant.”

The golems closed in, attempting to catch the sylvari on their metallic arms, but he was faster; in the blink of an eye, he disappeared, making the golems collide with each other. Plixx roared and fire began to pour out of her eyes, as the golems announced “Searching-for-target,” and turned on themselves, looking for their slippery prey.

“Find him!” Plixx ordered, waving her arms around, combusting the air around her. The members of her crewe jumped out of their working stations, wielding weapons and looking around nervously, unable to decide if they were more frightened of her boss or that unknown vegetal threat. “If he escapes, I’ll dispose of all of you as test subjects until-...”

Before she could finish her declamation with a “Until the Eternal Alchemy claims me,” one of the golems protested and stuttered, falling to the ground in pieces. Only a blur of a long, leather coat was visible before disappearing once again in the shadows, narrowingly avoiding a fireball that Plixx hurled in his direction. Suddenly, another golem in the other side of the room fell, and the crewe began to step back, closing-in together in a shivering circle.

“You cowards!” Plixx yelled, turning her back on the fight and threatening the asura with fists ignited in flames. “I will turn you all into magical abominations for this! You’ll regret the day you left the womb! Your cries of mercy won’t-...!”

Once again, she was interrupted, but not because of an external noise. Her crewe stepped back even further and faster, not because of the threat of being subjected to her work ethics, but because of something behind her. Something taller, that she could feel looming over her.

For the first time in her life, Plixx knew fear. She glanced over her shoulder swallowing a lump, only to see the vague shadow of a sylvari, and the sheen of a dagger.

On the room adjacent, leader Ylla tried to distinguish what the commotion could mean. Over the sound of sobbing skritt, and the fearful chatter of her crewe, she had been trying to find an opening to save the whole team, but such an opportunity was fading from the horizon every second they spent there, waiting.

But that commotion was new. If she wasn’t such a brilliant scientist, she could’ve swear she recognized the telltale sounds of battle. But she was, indeed, a scientist, and such sound was unknown to her. She could only theorize that that was how battle sounded, from afar and through the wall of an Inquest cell.

“Leader Ylla, we were thinking, and-...” one of her assistants muttered, but Ylla raised her hand, asking for silence. The sounds increased in intensity, and she could hear the echoes of the metallic joints of moving golems.

Her young assistant joined her; a fresh Synergetics graduate, brilliant, with lots of potential. She was Ylla’s favorite. She was kind of sad that she ended up there with her.

“Ecca, I would like your input,” Ylla murmured, narrowing her eyes. Ecca tensed up, scooting closer. “What do you think those sounds are?”

Ecca rose both her ears up -one with a chunk missing-, and listened intently. Ylla could still hear other, less brilliant members of her crewe muttering behind her, but decided to ignore them like she had been doing until now.

“It’s hard to say,” Ecca apologized, lowering her ears. “Might be the Inquest trying out a new type of golem against their old ones, might be some friendly sparring with a new type of weapon. It is, however, clearly a confrontation.”

Ylla nodded in agreement. Ecca hesitated to add something else, breathing in deeply.

“I… the crewe and I believe our chances at escaping are, currently, at a twenty percent,” she stated, nervously. “And they keep dropping the more time we spend here.”

“I believe so as well,” Ylla agreed, still looking out the light bars of their cell. Ecca turned to her, her ears up in surprise.

“Are you not worried?” she asked, trying to validate her own emotions with Ylla’s.

“I was worried,” Ylla confessed, but pointed at the room’s entrance with her chin. “But not anymore.”

Ecca fell silent. The sounds of battle had disappeared while they chatted, and she couldn’t understand why did Leader Ylla think that was a good thing. Until she followed her eyes, and found herself staring deeply into the magenta eyes of a tall, dark sylvari.

She gasped, startled, but he seemed as nervous as her. And his weapons (a cheap sword -too short for him-, and a dagger) were dirty, with both oil and blood. Ylla chuckled.

“I bet Plixx is not as full of herself now, huh,” she said, standing up. “Come closer, sylvari. We can help you get out undetected.”

He hesitated, but finally stepped closer and knelt down in front of the light bars. Ecca felt uneasy -his eyes were too attentive, too fixed on whatever he was looking-, but Ylla’s casual demeanor calmed her down.

“My name is Leader Ylla, and this is my crewe,” she said, as Ecca and the rest waved at the stranger. “If you would be so kind to input the code Y-1-1-A 5-U-C-K-5 in the terminal behind you, we would be very thankful.”

The sylvari blinked once before nodding, walking towards the console and pondering just a second before bending his knees to be able to operate it. The light bars raised up, freeing both the asura and the skritt, who squealed in delight.

“Thank you, kind stranger,” Ylla said, ushering her crewe to stand up and get out. “Now, I can-...”

“Arlen,” the sylvari muttered, watching as the skritt hesitated to join the asura out of the cell. Ylla frowned.

“Pardon me?”

“My name’s Arlen,” the sylvari repeated, finally looking at her. Ecca couldn’t help but notice that even if he was attentive, he avoided the asura’s eyes. “I have a question.”

Ylla frowned just slightly, before gesturing at him to continue. He seemed to hesitate for a second.

“Do I look like Nightmare?” he asked, pinching his clothes.

Ecca had to recall her studies. She was aware that there was a group of sylvari - of evil sylvari, if that was even possible. They were in cahoots with the Inquest and the bandits of the Brisban Wildlands to provide test subjects and/or prisoners for them to do as they pleased. They were the ones who had taken them from their lab in Mrot Boru. And that sylvari, Arlen, looked a lot like one of them.

“Come a little closer, Arlen,” Ylla commanded, gesturing at him.

Arlen obeyed silently, kneeling down once more. Ylla stepped closer, circling around him and pondering, and finally looking into his eyes. Once again, Arlen avoided direct contact.

“You don’t have a mean bone in you, sylvari,” she announced nodding sagely. The sylvari blinked. “You don’t  _ feel _ like them.”

Only then, the skritt raced out the cage, cheering at their savior and clamoring “Good plant! Good plant take us back to Skrittburg, yes!” Ecca could swear that, even though Arlen remained stoic, she could see the hint of a smile on his face as he followed the skritt with his eyes.

“Now, if there are no more inquiries, we should be going,” Ylla said, walking towards the terminal Arlen had used and starting to type. Suddenly the lights went red, and the sound of even more light cells opening -and the clamoring of their various occupants- filled the room. “This should cover our tracks just nicely.”

Weeks later, the Inquest would be still lamenting the total loss of a lab’s investigation and crewe due to some cell door malfunction. And she would still be laughing about it.


	7. Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can You Guess Who The Special Guest Is?

“You’re the best, or so I’ve heard.”

Arlen was paying attention, but his immediate focus was on the knife the charr had on his hands. It was big and broad, like a butcher’s knife, but he wielded it as if it was a tiny dagger, no bigger than the ones the sylvari carried on his belt. The charr buried the sharp edge deep on the table, and then lifted it off of it with ease, spreading wood chunks across the surface.

“I must admit, I wasn’t sold on you as the… man for the job,” the charr snarled, sitting straight on the chair, towering over Arlen. “But now that I see you, you seem like the right kind of cabbage.”

The charr’s laugh was deep like thunder, or like the roar of a wild beast. Arlen understood a thing or two about beasts, but the constant scrutiny made him feel uneasy. Deep down, he knew that was what the charr was trying to elicit in him.

“So you need some coin, and I need to get rid of some vermin,” the charr continued, fetching a small leather purse from his belt. When he dropped it on the table, the sound of coins filled Arlen’s ears, and he couldn't help it; he tensed up only so slightly, eyes fixed on the purse. “Are you up for it?”

Arlen thought about it. He had killed Nightmare Knights before for coin. He had liberated skritt prisoners for shiny bottle caps. He had terrorized bandits, Hylek, Krait, all to keep the peace, and to earn some food and rest. His travels had taken him to the lands of Humans and Centaurs, of Charr and Branded.

But as some said, “all the paths lead to Lion’s Arch”. He didn’t expect, however, his name to arrive there first.

“Give me a target,” Arlen said, voice descending to unfathomable depths. “And I’ll take care of it.”

He extended his arm to take the purse, but the charr put his huge claw on top of his hand. Reluctantly, Arlen raised his eyes to meet the charr’s, blinking.

“Half pay upfront,” he grunted, maw stretching in a big smile. “Half pay when you bring me proof the deed is done.”

Arlen nodded, neck tense, and retrieved the purse from under the charr’s claw. He chuckled.

“Meet me here in a week,” the charr ordered, leaving an envelope on the table as he got up. “Or don’t bother showing your face in public again.”

As the charr left with a tail flail, Arlen took the envelope, stuffing it into his coat and finishing his drink. Nobody even gave him a second glance as he got up and left, ten minutes after his companion. Shady business were the rule on the seedy taverns of Sanctum Harbor.

**~o~**

The asura looked nervous. He shifted uncomfortably on the seat, looking around, waiting to get caught. Arlen didn’t like to meet up public, either; even if nobody seemed to care, he was starting to feel eyes on him wherever he went in the city. Shady-looking apple vendors kept appearing everywhere, throwing glances his way, and then vanishing without a trace. He tried not to be paranoid, but it was hard in his line of work.

Still, if he wanted to avoid being caught in a Lionsguard raid, the asura would do better to get to the point. He hesitated and rose his ears in alertness, finally dropping them and leaning forward in a conspirative mood.

“Are you _the_ Arlen, my friend?” he murmured.

“That’s my name,” Arlen pointed out, spinning one of his daggers on his hand and grabbing it by the handle each time. The asura followed the movement with his eyes, swallowing hard.

“Alright then,” the asura breathed in deep, closing his eyes for a second before talking. “As you may know, recent… developments in the war have left us with little room to wiggle around the Lionsguard.”

Arlen nodded. It had been a surprise when some shady individual had knocked on his door near dawn, calling about an “risen invasion” advancing through the city. It had been even more surprising, however, to find rotting corpses advancing towards him from the sea, stinking up the whole place. Some heroes had swept the city, it seemed like, one wearing an avatar of a God and all. He wasn’t sure if that was how it worked. But the city was now clean, and the Lionsguard, a pain in the ass. More than usual.

“A-anyway,” the asura said, lowering his voice even more. “Have you heard about The Consortium?”

This time, Arlen shook his head. The asura seemed almost relieved.

“There are these scholars, working around the ruins of Old Lion’s Arch,” he murmured, nervously rubbing his hands together. “They’re uncovering objects of value. Some might even be magical.”

Finally, he clasped his hands together, biting his lips from the inside of his mouth, and raising his big, bug-like eyes towards Arlen in a silent plea.

“Do you think you might be able to… recover them for me?” he asked, a weak smile forming up. Arlen frowned.

“I don’t steal,” he precised. The asura nodded.

“I’m sure you don’t,” he replied, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “But after the shootout, there might be some objects missing, and my employer would be thrilled if-...”

“Use those long ears to listen,” Arlen cut him, getting up from his seat. “I don’t steal.”

The asura rose his ears, offended, as Arlen made his way out of the tavern. Then, he followed, trying to keep up with the sylvari’s long strides.

“By the Alchemy! It would only take a second!” he insisted, as Arlen tried to walk faster. “After you get your fix getting rid of those scholars, you could-...”

“Leave me alone,” Arlen asked, even if, in his deep voice, sounded more like an order.

“The pay would be tremendous!” the asura yelled, as Arlen left him behind. “You will regret not being the man for the job!”

Arlen didn’t want to be the man for the job. He tried to kill murderers, or criminals. To turn into one himself was a hard limit.

Even if, sometimes, he questioned the legality of his line of work.

**~o~**

The being across from Arlen wasn’t the one who employed him. He was a skinny sylvari; skin like fresh bark from a newborn tree, hair like dusty leaves, of a delicate white, tied up on a low ponytail that made its way towards his back. He sat with his legs crossed, taking a sip out of a water skin that didn’t smell like water at all, but like charr whisky. He took his time to grimace, sighing with satisfaction as the liquid burned his throat, before he acknowledged Arlen.

“So, young fellow,” he said, disdain on his eyes, voice deep and velvety. “Do you have something from me?”

Years on the job had taught Arlen to be careful around strangers. But the emblem on the sylvari’s shield was the same that the one on his employer’s -and his victim’s- clothes, so he figured it was alright to share the details.

“I couldn’t get the package back,” Arlen said, stern as always. “Sorry.”

The sylvari dropped his friendly demeanor, narrowing his eyes and pressing his lips together in a fine line. There was something dangerous on his poise; threatening, even being as skinny as he was.

“You have some nerve, sapling,” he muttered, between clenched teeth. “You were supposed to solve my problems, not cause some more.”

“He’s dead,” Arlen explained, ignoring him. The other sylvari raised a brow. “Something else got him first.”

It had been frustrating, really. The night was clear and still; no wind to mess up his shot. The full moon made it a bit difficult to hide, but he had managed to do so with ease either way. But as soon as the crosshair was fixed on that slippery human’s head, and he got a glimpse of the package he carried -stolen from some cargo ship-, that noise, that low roar, distracted him.

He saw a massive figure emerge from the dirty harbor water, and the human cried and begged for his life as he was overcome by some sort of crab-like beings that seemed to pour out of the waves like one being. The big one dragged him towards the water. When the Lionsguard arrived, even the ripples on the water had vanished. And if Arlen had been skeptical about those sea monster posters before, he was now well aware of the truth.

“What do you mean, ‘something else’?” the other sylvari suddenly snarked, leaning over the table. “Who do you take me for? You insolent sapling.”

“If he weren’t dead,” Arlen continued, unimpressed by the sylvari’s threatening attitude. “You would be in jail, isn’t it?”

It was part proof, part genuine question. Those kind of packages, smuggled in the middle of the night, urgent to grab back again, weren’t what one could call legal. And even if Arlen was past the point of caring, he now knew that, to leverage with criminals, he had to understand what made them tick.

And tick it made him. The sylvari clenched his teeth, but sat back down.

“Do you even know who are you talking to?” he snarked once more, raising a brow.

Arlen gave him a good look, trying to identify if he had ever known him before. The incipient facial hair, something like thorns barely insinuating on his jaw, that thick, hooked nose, those narrow eyes, full of resentment.

“No,” he replied. The sylvari huffed.

“Of course not,” he mocked, getting up. “A nobody knows nobody.”

Arlen noticed the coin purse he was supposed to give up, hanging from the sylvari’s belt. Something told him he was going to pocket the money, since the job was done anyway.

But before he left, the sylvari stopped, pondering for a second before turning to look his way once more.

“Now that I think about it, I may have another job for you.”

He returned to his seat, but stood beside him, looking down on Arlen as he spoke.

“I’m in charge of an important expedition, for an important company,” he explained, all too smug about it. “We’re exploring a newly discovered island, surveying what resources it has available. We’re forbidden to harvest, exploit, or take any animal, mineral, or magical resource we find, however.”

The sylvari didn’t mention anything about plant life, Arlen couldn’t help but to notice.

“The crew has been hard to maintain, despite the generous pay; there are a lot of hazards, as well as temptations,” he explained. “I- we, could use someone of your expertise. After all, we have…”

A slow, sly, dangerous smile formed across the sylvari’s face.

“A job opening.”

Despite everything, Arlen thought about it. It would be nice, discovering a new place, far away from the land he was growing to know so well. It would be a steady job, it seemed. And a legal one, even if it flirted with illegality.

“Which company did you say you served under?” Arlen asked. The other sylvari’s smile wavered.

“Currently, The Consortium holds my contract,” he explained, bitterly. “But I’m an independent worker. I’m above being employed.”

That name. Arlen quickly shook his head, grabbing his dagger and making it spin fast on his hand.

“I don’t deal with The Consortium,” he muttered. “They’re shady.”

“And you’re a murderer,” the other sylvari retorted, this time openly disdainful. “Yet you try to preach morality.”

And so, he turned and left, letting Arlen ponder on his luck. Perhaps it was time to change courses. Perhaps it was time to get a new job, before his current one got to him.

Perhaps, it was time to leave again.


	8. Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New month, new chapter! I'll try to finish this before the end of the year, to start posting the follow-up.
> 
> I'm excited for what's to come in this story. Stay tuned for more Arlen!

“Are you hurt?” she asked. She was a young human woman; nimble, agile, but surprisingly strong. Arlen looked up from his bandages, doubting for a second before briefly nodding. “Would you mind if I take a look?”

After a pause, he shook his head, so the woman carefully unwrapped his bandages, attentive to his reactions. She seemed surprised to see the golden, sap-like liquid that soaked the wraps closer to the wound, but kept going. Arlen had known human blood before, so he has sympathetic to her confusion.

She murmured a soft “Holy Dwayna” upon seeing the cut. It was deep, and tiny, serrated white teeth contrasted with the golden gleam of Arlen's blood. He hadn't seen them before bandaging it in a hurry. He didn't know the wound was dirty. That explained a great deal.

Despite knowing about the hidden roads of North-Eastern Ascalon, something had gone terribly awry. They were lucky to be alive; both him, the girl, and the grumpy asura scholar they were hired to escort. Arlen remembered the ambush clearly, for it was the first one he had ever fell for in years. But they weren’t Branded - or at least, not a kind of Branded he had encountered before. They weren’t crystalline, they didn’t gleam with the purple rage of the Dragon, their attacks didn’t sting like the feeling of touching a golem right after its full recharge.

And they bit. Hard.

“Alright, let me just-...” the girl muttered, quickly disposing of her black gloves.

With a wave of her wrists, water droplets condensed on her fingers, quickly enveloping her hands in a bubble-like manner. And suddenly, flame; the water sizzled and boiled, disappearing in a puff of vapor.

“Now I’m ready,” she announced, scooting a bit closer. Arlen followed the movements of her hands, oblivious to the whole process. “Please, be still.”

He obeyed, more out of curiosity than anything, as she used tiny ice needles to grab a single piece of tooth. It was sharp, and serrated, and stinged like thorns as she softly pulled it out. Arlen hissed between clenched teeth, and then frowned.

It had been a silly mistake, really. Something about those beings confused him greatly. Some strange pull, right behind his mind, where the shadows of the dark corners of his thoughts lurked. He had seen them before his partner, but he couldn't call out. Why would he? They were friends.

Arlen couldn’t understand why he had thought that. But as suddenly as the pull appeared, it was gone - and the beings turned hostile. The first ones to arrive were the dogs.

“I don’t know where they came from,” she muttered, focused on her task, chasing another tooth. “They were just suddenly on top of us. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

He had tried to shake them off with a swift kick, and a brute strike with the butt of his rifle. The first dog -or at least, they sounded and acted as dogs, even if their bright colors seemed to indicate otherwise- was propelled backwards with a whimper. The second one evaded him, somehow. And buried its damn teeth on his stretched arm.

“They seemed so… eager,” she continued, repressing a goosebump to avoid losing another piece of bone. “So eager to-...”

The ‘clink’ of the teeth shards on the rock beneath them filled the empty silence. Arlen knew what they wanted, somehow. He didn’t, however, know why.

For the dog wasn’t up to be shaken off. It planted its paws on the floor beneath, suddenly as strong as ten sylvari, and started pulling backwards. As her partner fought off another monsters (a flower-like being which floated slightly above the ground), those dogs -their heads, the consumed skulls of other animals, as Arlen could testify now- buried their teeth even deeper, making him grimace and grunt, attempting to drag him backwards towards whatever Tree forsaken hole they had climbed up from. Tendrils began to break out from the dirt around him, tearing and tugging on his clothes, as his partner realized what was happening and yelled out his name.

He was losing the battle. He was going to get dragged towards whatever hungry maw those beings had come from. Arlen was going to die like a bloody bodyguard, escorting spineless scholars and merchants around the Iron Marches.

But then, the fire.

“Thank you,” Arlen muttered, eyes fixed on the process of plucking the last teeth from his arm. The other bodyguard stopped briefly, and if Arlen had been more attentive, he could’ve seen her blush.

“It’s nothing, really,” she replied, more sweetly than she intended. “It’s just part of the duty.”

“You don’t look like a healer,” Arlen then noted, as she paused for one more second before getting a tiny leather pouch, full of an aromatic balm.

“I used to work as a medic for the Lionsguard,” she explained, gathering water once more, and heating it mixed with the balm on the air. “But after the Breachmaker, work got hard. I guess you’ve felt the backlash as well.”

For once, Arlen looked up, confused. She frowned.

“The Breachmaker?” she explained, baffled by Arlen’s lack of response. “Scarlet’s attacks? The whole city, destroyed? Hundreds of thousands dead?”

Arlen shook his head. The elementalist whistled, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Where have you been the last year?”

“Working.”

He had heard about some sea monsters attacking Lion’s Arch, about a year prior. He had heard about a crazed sylvari running wild around Tyria, and had had some looks thrown his way. But he was used to the dirty glances, and the general air of suspicion around him. He was a mercenary, after all; it came with the job.

The woman quickly boiled the balm with water from her hands, and then spread it on some new bandages she had produced from her belt. The balm smelled good; like the forest right after the rain. And even if it stung a bit when she applied the bandages, some analgesic properties calmed the pain in a second.

“I’ve healed sylvari before, so this should work for now,” she muttered, getting more bandages. “If you can afford it, however, I would ask for a proper mender as soon as we reach the next Vigil camp.”

Arlen nodded. It took him a while to notice her silence was one born out of nervousness instead of comfort, as he contemplated the campfire.

She had been so brave to jump to his aid. They had been working together for a while now; always finding each other working as a team. And now, as he was being dragged and roared in pain, her nimble silhouette, the lightning flash of her white hair, was a more than welcome sight. With a quick strike of her daggers, she made burning cuts on the dogs’ backs, making them whimper and loosening their grip on his arm. So Arlen saw his chance and took it; with a strong pull, he managed to escape their hungry maws, tearing the sleeve in the process.

Their victory had been swift after that, as fire rained from the heavens upon her command, and the beings seemed deadly afraid of its burning rage. They ran away; the dogs yelping with fearful excitement, and the other being floating as its tendrils waved around its engorged shape in a way that seemed almost panicked. And, as she took care of the tiny, but grumpy and bossy, asura scholar they were protecting, Arlen took a second to bandage in a hurry, awaiting the time they set a camp to even start to worry about it.

That human and him. They worked very well as a team. It was something new for Arlen; having a work partner who he wasn’t afraid would backstab him at the first chance. She had her opportunity to get rid of him, and didn’t take it. In fact, she had saved him.

The soft rustle of her cloth armor made him tense up, violently pulling him from his thoughts. He hadn’t realize she was so close. As he turned his head, she shortened the distance between them, looking deep into his eyes as she got closer, and closer, and closer. Lowering her eyes towards his lips. Her breath so warm and moist.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” she murmured, a hand tracing the line of his jaw. “I would’ve teared those vines down anyway, but I had an extra incentive this time.”

She was too close. Arlen scooted backwards, shoulders tense, expresion, cautious. She stopped her approach, in her eyes, a question.

“I’m not…” he struggled to explain. He never had to before. “You are… your  _ type _ of human, I guess…”

“You’re not into girls?” she murmured. Arlen stopped for a second to consider that statement, before nodding. “Oh, I see.”

She sat back down, sighing briefly and nodding to herself.

“I-it’s okay,” she assured him, playing with the short strands of hair around her face. “I just thought… we fight well together, and we always end up working together. I guess I thought it made sense.”

Arlen didn’t reply, petrified in place. She nodded again.

“Ignore me; I’m probably not making any sense whatsoever,” she stated, getting up and giving him a warm smile. “You should rest up. I’ll do the first round.”

As she made her way towards a ledge -a vantage point they had scouted before-, Arlen remained seated, staring at the fire, all kinds of puzzled about what had just transpired. He had yet to understand humans, he guessed. 


	9. Mordrem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where Arlen makes mistakes.

He had wandered too far. Such was Arlen’s sole thought, as he fought against a jungle that seemed to grow around him, embracing him, waiting for his strength to fail to devour him. All paths looked the same, every direction felt the same. No change in smell, or light, or wind direction to guide him. Every step felt like he was walking towards the open maw of a vicious predator.

There was also a dreadful silence. Something, massive and powerful, was missing. The jungle was full of life, but the silence banged on Arlen’s mind for reasons he couldn’t understand. He had wandered too far. He needed to come back.

But at the same time, he needed to _know_. He had seen the light beam, up towards the sky, while traveling across Kessex Hills with a Lionsguard merchant caravan. That night, strange dreams came to him in the form of a trembling light, like the one of a candle, being suddenly extinguished. A strong wind had suffocated the flame. And when he woke up, he felt a terrible sense of loss, and a wave of sadness he couldn’t understand or silence.

It had been years since he had heard the tender whispers of the Dream. Ever since he had become a Soundless, the waves of the Tree’s will were but a distant memory. Something extraordinaire, or terrible, or both, had happened.

On the edge of a clearing, he had to stop to breathe in deeply, supporting his back on the trunk of a massive tree. Even though he made sure he was heading in the right direction, something in his guts told him otherwise. The air was heavy and the sky looked cloudy; some sort of unease bathed the area, and he felt unsafe all of the sudden. But before he could return to the golden structures he had seen from afar -but for some reason kept being out of his reach, no matter how much he walked towards them-, another, less abstract feeling overcame him.

A cold shiver on his spine. The soft crack of leaves under a crushing weight. The dread of turning around to reveal what secrets the jungle might conceal under its veil of trees and shadow.

After a brief pause, he decided to keep going. The shadows grew deeper as he advanced, and what seemed to be a path suddenly coiled further south. Artificial pieces of scrap metal were the only dissonant element around, and Arlen vaguely wondered what had transpired there; what massive battle was fought, who had died when those metal structures fell and crashed and burned. Maybe it had something to do with that strange sadness that kept pushing him forward; deeper into the jungle.

Suddenly, voices. He stood still, in the middle of the road, ears attentive and breathing slow, and soft. He couldn’t make out what they were saying; but they were a lot, discussing loudly, with low voices and secure steps. It sounded like military boots, and paws. Maybe they were soldiers, patrolling a nearby camp. He had hear rumors of a big war, waged against a terrible, incomprehensible evil.

A feeling overcame him. A known feeling; the strong, irresistible certainty that they weren’t enemies, but friends. That he belonged with them, endlessly patrolling the jungle, trying to find direction in a world with none. He hesitated - something else pulled him away. But the compulsion was stronger, and he took a step forward, towards the voices.

Maybe he belonged there. Forever stalking the woods. Forever waiting until the jungle finally rose towards the sky, seeds scattered in the wind, growing hidden from sight, until The Master awakened once more.

No.

Just in time, he jumped out of the way, vanishing in the shadows as what he thought were soldiers passed by.

Soldiers, they weren’t. Or at least, not of a kind Arlen knew about. He took out his rifle as a precaution, but merely used the crosshair to take a closer look. They were heavily armored, but had no clothes in them whatsoever. Hard growths shielded them from damage, or that was what the dents on their bodies seemed to indicate. And Arlen had the strange, disturbing certainty that they were once like him; answering the call of which he could only hear echoes from.

And they spoke. Of war and strife, of famine and death. Of a life; one empty of purpose, of an overpowering will that once guided every breath, every step. They spoke of triviality with the emptiness of defeat. With the pain of being forgotten.

“The pods are drying; they hurt,” a hulking figure said; even taller than Arlen. “They need sustenance. And clean water.”

“The water of the Auric Basin is no good,” another figure, more slender but still big, replied. “It burns them. If we’re to survive, we have to leave.”

“Further south,” muttered the first figure, a low growl of discontempt. “Towards where our Will fell.”

Arlen had heard, on passing, about the war against the jungle. He had seen the airships sailing across the skies, carrying hope, and sorrow. And he had steered clear from it; for war wasn’t his business, and it was hard enough to stay alive already. But as he spied those beings, those shattered bodies, rebuilt and struggling to keep going, something moved inside of him. A sliver of nostalgia, and a sense of kinship.

They kept advancing across the jungle, soldiers forgotten after the war is waged, and all that’s left is scraps and bodies. Carefully, silently, Arlen came out of the shadows, watching the path they traveled. It was a sad one. A lonely one. But it was a path.

But even if he thought himself lonely, he was far from being truly alone.

A loud crack of broken branches, and a deep, animalistic growl made him look towards the north, where he originally had came from. He saw the trees move as a massive shape flung itself towards him, but there was no beast, no enemy to cover from. Or at least, _none that he could see_.

The impact, right on his chest, took him by surprise and left him breathless, as he felt his feet lifted from the ground, and the branches and trunks impacted against his back and shoulders. Suddenly he wasn’t on the road anymore, but in the middle of the tall trees, feeling the wet ground on his back. The movement and the impact against the ground left him dizzy and disoriented, but he still managed to gather enough strength to punch up. His knuckles impacted against a hard shell, and he felt droplets of something spraying his face.

That was all it took for the veil of stealth to fall. Arlen widened his eyes, startled, before the mighty claw of the being grabbed his arm, pushing it towards the ground. It opened its maw and growled deeply, arching its neck up, ready to kill.

Arlen rolled out of the way, jumping up and pushing the being with his back. He couldn’t move it, but was free enough to escape its grasp and get a hold on his weapons, as the creature stalked him like a panther would do.

Once again, he had never seen anything like it. The formidable body seemed to be made out of something else; something he couldn’t quite make out, but felt a lot like tree bark. Strong arms and back rested on a, comparably, tinier waist, that in turn connected to powerful, animalistic legs that gave it the impulse to pounce once more.

This time, however, Arlen was ready. If that creature wanted to stalk him and make a prey out of him, it would have to do better than some stealth veil and a hulking strength. He jumped out of the reach of the creature’s claws, rolling to the side and vanishing in the shadows, for they were his domain as well. And as the beast opened its maw, inhaling air, trying to find his scent, Arlen dropped like a javelin from the treetops, managing to sink one of his daggers, coated in basilisk poison, in the middle of its broad, muscular back.

It roared, and scrambled to shake Arlen off, trying to get a hold on him again. But the sylvari managed to escape once more, rolling forward and making a cut on the creature’s neck as he slid down. Thick, sap-like blood splattered him, and Arlen got the sudden realization that it looked, smelled and felt a lot like his own.

The sensation shook him for reasons he’d rather not analize, and cost him one swift swipe on the back. He growled in pain and jumped backwards again, producing a rapier to replace his own dagger, still on the creature’s back, as it hunched down and moved, slowly, to its left. Arlen did the same, measuring its wounds, and his own. He thought he’d probably have a better chance if he disappeared and climbed up the trees, trying to snipe it before it could find him once again. But the creature’s senses were as sharp as it claws, and it probably knew the terrain better than him. To try to use the surrounding area to his advantage might be a mistake. And still, at the same time, attacking it head on was a fool’s errand; the monster was stronger than him, and would probably take him down in a matter of minutes if he tried that approach.

The only viable strategy was to try and attack it when it couldn’t reach him. Like on his back, or under it. Discreetly, Arlen began to step backwards, trying to gain a running start to jump over its head, or slide under its claws. But the creature realized his move, and with a savage roar, it hit the ground with both fists.

Arlen was taken aback, as he felt the ground shake under his feet. Was the creature _that_ strong? But the reason was much more mundane, and much worse for him; The jungle floor cracked and rose, as roots and vines made its way upwards like snakes, climbing on his legs and squeezing tight, sinking its thorns like teeth. Arlen couldn’t help it; his knees buckled and he fell to the ground, as the vines started to climb his arms as well. And the monster began to walk closer, its tail flailing menacingly behind it, its mouth oozing thick saliva as it opened it, teeth ready to take him down in a single bite.

The sylvari forced himself to remain calm. The pain on his arms and legs was distracting, but he needed to focus. On the open, tender mouth of the creature, like a target on a shooting range. He had a matter of seconds, and he needed to make them count.

Ignoring the pain, he pulled on his arms; the thorns making deep, long, vertical cuts on his skin and his armor he would need to address in the near future. But as the creature began to run towards him, he managed to grab his rifle, squeezing the trigger without even looking at the crosshair.

The loud bang echoed through the jungle, as did the creature’s lament. It grabbed its own head with its claws, arching its back up and turning tail, running deeper into the jungle, heading east. The last thing Arlen saw of it was its long tail, coiling behind it, breaking some branches as amber blood stained the jungle floor. Both the creature’s, and his own.

Arlen finally got up, as the vines fell like dust from his legs, suddenly dead. His breathing still laborious, he teared his own leather coat’s sleeves, quickly grabbing some bandages and attempting to stop the bleeding before he felt lightheaded. Blood quickly soaked his bandages, but he managed to press on, limping only slightly. Staying in one place, with some vicious predator who may or may not still be tracking him, was a bad idea.

But maybe pressing on was, also, a bad idea. The shadows grew deeper, and Arlen was suddenly very tired. His legs kept going, deeper down south, answering a calling that was merely an echo, always south, always pulling, right at the back of his mind. He wanted to know… he needed to know. The light beam, the sadness, the dreams. He was so hurt, so tired.

He stopped once more, supporting his weight on a thick tree trunk. There were tracks on the jungle floor, but he didn’t know which creature might’ve left them. They looked Hylek, but were too small to correspond with any Hylek he knew about. And there were also what looked like sylvari tracks… but bigger, and deeper. Wherever he was heading into now, it wasn’t safe. There were signs of struggle, and battle, in the dents on the trees and the broken arrows scattered around him.

Despite his injuries, Arlen decided to climb up. Maybe a birds eye view would help him reach his destination, or at least, to know how to come back. So he got to it; his arms were still weak, but there were enough spots on the tree trunk to grab onto, so the way up wasn’t as terrible as he thought it would be. It was, almost, as if something, or someone, had carved a makeshift staircase on the living trunk.

As he reached up, he realized the branches were thick enough to support his weight; a chance to rest up, if only a little bit. So he sat down, back against the trunk, and eyes peeled just in case. His breathing was still laborious, and the fact he couldn’t get it to slow down was a bit worrisome. The bandages were soaked, and his hands were trembling if only a little bit.

Arlen started to realize he needed to get help, as soon as possible. But in the middle of the dark jungle, he was beyond any.

He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. And for once, he admitted it to himself; he was scared. The jungle was lonely and oppressive - its shadows got into his head, rather than inviting him to discover its secrets. But that damn pulling, that yearning towards the south, was too great of a call to ignore. And even in his wounded state, it kept beckoning him. If only he knew why.

“Pull the saplings off,” Arlen suddenly heard a low, growling female voice call. “And put the pods in carriages. Gently so, or I’ll gut you all before you can catch a breath.”

Like one of the shadows under the higher branches, Arlen crawled towards the voice, finding an opening where the lower, thicker branches parted and revealed a sunken part of the jungle floor, buzzing with activity. He recognized those beings once again; those armored beings who relentlessly patrolled the jungle, trying to find a purpose, some kind of aim. They were tending some sort of enchanted vines that seemed limp and drying, as they unloaded a few bright, toxic green pods onto the backs of saurians who had vines and leaves crawling out from every opening in their bodies, including deadly-looking wounds.

The sylvari quietly took his rifle out, spying the clearing with the crosshair. Some saurians were already leaving, following a broad path down south with their precious cargo, accompanied by those other beings. Their leader -the one who Arlen had heard speak earlier on- oversaw their work with arms crossed; her worry transparent even if her face was expressionless, a thick mask unable to emote beyond a blank frown.

Arlen also noticed that, even if some beings had a strong drive and will (like their leader had), others merely moved on command; limp arms that seemed to move only upon receiving an order, eyes that became alive as soon as they were pushed to move, only to pass as lifeless statues the next moment.

Some sort of terrible urgency began to fill him with unease. The stillness of some of those beings’ movements, contrasted terribly with the desperate drive of others. The pods, and the saplings, with broad leaves and thin, high trunks that seemed to point towards a sky that was indifferent to their struggle. The familiarity of it all, more than the details that were alien to him, made Arlen feel dizzy; as if at the brink of some terrible discovery that could drive him mad.

He put down the rifle, breathing in and out slowly. He knew about wars waged, and about victories earned. But defeat… that was something he wasn’t sure he wanted to know about.

As Arlen tried to stand up to quietly leave, however, a sharp pain made him kneel down again. The bandages on his legs felt wet, as did the ones on his arms. His wounds all screamed at once, begging for an attention the lonely sylvari wasn’t sure he could provide. And, worse of all, some of the flower-dogs bellow -those dogs... he could recall their bite without effort- began to sniff around, lured by the smell of his blood, soaking the shreds of his armor wet.

So he crawled on his back, retreating to the shadows, as the caretakers of those hounds began to turn, quizzical, towards their unquiet pets. A bright, golden trail followed his movements, and Arlen began to suspect the dizziness wasn’t as much a product of a terrible secret, but due to blood loss. With a low grunt, he allowed himself to collapse on the branch - the evening sun barely filtering down the higher leaves, giving the southern jungle a greenish lightning.

Was he really going to die there? Alone, succumbing to battle wounds, listening to the voices and calls of beings he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand? He had survived so much already, it was hard to believe that was really going to be it. But he was so tired; weakened for days on hiding, exploring the dark crevices of that unforgiving jungle. Or maybe, tired of endless years on the run from something he wasn’t able to pinpoint.

He was so, so tired, however. Arlen closed his eyes with a sigh, ignoring the tall shadow looming over him.

…

Warmth. And the sweet cracking of logs on a fire. Arlen turned towards the light, feeling the warmth on his face, and on his arms and legs. It was nice. At least it was nicer than anything he had felt in weeks. That was confusing.

He sat up, opening his eyes, and frowning. He was pretty sure he was supposed to be dead by now. But the air was still thick and heavy with humidity; he was, still, in the middle of the unforgiving jungle. But he was alive; his arms bandaged, as were his legs. Even more surprisingly; they were properly healed instead of patched up in a hurry. And they smelled strongly of herbs and medicine to the point it was almost unbearable.

He looked around briefly, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. He, definitely, wasn’t on the tangled southern jungle anymore; the huge trees were bathed by golden light, and, more prominently, a gargantuan waterfall sang its primordial song nearby, plummeting towards an underground pool below the thick branches he rested on. Arlen didn’t recognize the place; he probably snuck around it, while trying to reach the deeper south with urgency. But now, under the open skies, that terrible, irresistible call was a mere murmur on the back of his head.

“Ah, you’re finally awake,” a voice said in krytan, with a strong accent and with strange articulation. As if his mouth wasn’t made for speaking such language. “You outsiders should’ve learn already that facing a Vinetooth alone is a terrible idea.”

Arlen turned with a question in his mind, but was left with several others as he met eyes with the stranger. He was a large frog - the largest one he had ever seen. Hylek? Maybe, but not of a kind he had met before. Through the fog of his mind, he remembered the tracks he had found… hours, maybe days ago.

The questions kept accumulating as Arlen studied the stranger, especially as he tuned some sort of instrument. The thin ropes tied to a log, when stroked, produced a pleasant sound Arlen couldn’t recall hearing anywhere else.

“Are you Hylek?” Arlen murmured, blinking. The being glanced over his way briefly, proceeding with his task.

“Itzel, if you must know,” he replied, and then asked in turn. “Are you Mordrem?”

“No,” Arlen murmured, confused. “Why would I be Mordrem?”

“Some of you plant people refer to yourselves that way,” the Itzel explained, frowning even so slightly. “Now that Mordremoth is not here, I don’t see the point. But then again, I’m not Mordrem, either. So maybe I only don’t understand it.”

Arlen had heard the words “Mordrem” and “Mordremoth” before, always referring to the war. He pieced it that those beings he had encountered before were the Mordrem - those “plant people” the Itzel told him about. For once, he wished he knew more about what was going on in the world, not to have spend so much time roaming the wilderness.

“My name is Iktan, since you didn’t ask,” the Itzel said, slightly annoyed. Arlen glanced over him again, lowering his eyes afterwards.

“Sorry,” he said, sitting in lotus position beside the fire. “Mine’s Arlen.”

Iktan nodded, playing that strange instrument for a moment, soothing the atmosphere. Arlen couldn’t help but to contemplate the movement of his fingertips over the cords, slightly mesmerized by how precise and fast they were despite its thickness.

“You healed me,” he suddenly said, touching the bandages on his arms. Iktan nodded once more. “Thank you.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve found an outsider wandering around Morwood Wilds,” Iktan recalled, shaking his head slightly. “Even after the war, it’s still a dangerous place. If you don’t know the land, at least.”

“Yes,” Arlen murmured, still distracted touching the bandages. They were made of different fibers than his own - a bit more coarse, and thicker. And they smelled different as well. Iktan noticed his confusion, so he played a bit slower now as he explained.

“Vinetooths have a venom in them,” he said. “The venom makes you bleed out faster. They used to hunt only Exalted, but after the Pact came here they learned new tricks.”

That explained a great deal. Arlen nodded, finally looking up at Iktan, but still touching his arms.

“We Itzel have ways of dealing with all kinds of venoms. We use those venoms as well,” Iktan proceeded. “I used one of our antidotes on you. It seems to work well on plants, too.”

He briefly stopped playing, producing a small vial filled with a bright purple liquid. He threw it towards Arlen, who grabbed it with one hand, and immediately smelled it. It was very similar to the smell on his own wounds.

“If you want to go south, you should go towards the southeast rather than just go south,” Iktan said, playing once again. “It will lead you to the chak, but even they are less dangerous than Morwood now, after the war. This is my last vial for the day, after all. I can’t go to save you again.”

Arlen briefly contemplated the liquid, before storing it on a leather pouch on his belt. It would, certainly, be useful later on, once he could analyze it.

“What happened in the war?” he asked, curious. Iktan stopped playing for good.

“What do you mean, ‘what happened’?” the Itzel questioned, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t,” Arlen confessed, eyes fixed on Iktan’s instrument, now abandoned. “I was busy working.”

Iktan seemed to doubt the veracity of his words, hesitating to start telling him the tale. But, finally and with a sigh, he sat more comfortably, leaning a bit towards the sylvari.

“A powerful beast awakened in the south,” he recalled. “A dragon, the warriors who came said. The dragon was called Mordremoth, and he ordered the plant people - your kind, to fight for him. Some listened.”

Arlen had, already, many questions. But decided that he didn’t need the answers for them.

“The outsiders fought the dragon for many days. We did so too. And we won, but the price was many lives lost,” Iktan said, lowering his head slightly. “Now we have to watch over the woods, so the Mordrem don’t get out of control again. They don’t attack if you don’t attack. They only want to live their lives, alone. Except the Vinetooths - they attack regardless.”

After a brief pause, Iktan took his instrument again, filling the silence with his melodies.

“I didn’t travel south, but I fought here,” he explained. “I defended our people. And will continue to do so.”

Arlen considered the Itzel’s words carefully, frowning. He felt the pulling, the yearning, the calling. But the dragon was dead now. Could it be that the mere echo of its massive presence was enough to compel him to travel to his death? It didn’t made sense. He could, maybe, believe it if he was near Mordremoth’s resting place, but he had yet to see a shape resembling a dragon’s corpse on his travels.

So he shook his head, trying to dispel his worries. He had other, more urgent questions to ask.

“I saw a beam of light, from far away,” Arlen recalled. “It came from further south. That’s what I came looking for here; I need to know what it was.”

Iktan lost his tempo briefly, cursing under his breath in a language Arlen couldn’t understand.

“There were two beams of light,” he said, carefully so. “One went up to the skies. The other one fell down to the earth.”

The melody he played changed; from a lighthearted tune, to a melancholic song of loss and bittersweet victory.

“One came from the Heart of Thorns,” he explained. “A big battle took place there. The dragon was destroyed, but heroes died. One of them was on every plant people’s words; Marshal Trahearne, they called him.”

A memory pierced Arlen’s confused thoughts. A memory, or maybe just a dream he had once, a long time ago. Before the Weeping Isle, before the Twilight Arbor. He knew of Firstborn Trahearne, of course, but couldn’t tell if he had ever seen him face to face or not. And, still, his calm factions, and his tender words, were still as easy for him to recall as if they had been friends. Him, dead, was a hard pill to swallow. Or so he thought. He wasn’t as sure anymore of what were his own thoughts, and what were but memories of the Pale Tree’s visions.

He hadn’t need the Soundless mantras in a while now. He could barely recall them, in fact. But he managed to close his eyes, breathing in deeply and thinking to himself.

 _My thoughts are my own. My thoughts are my own. My thoughts are my own_.

“The second beam fell nearby,” he heard Iktan’s voice, from far away. “Towards east. But you don’t want to go there. The Exalted doesn’t like outsiders a lot.”

After a brief pause, Arlen glanced over Iktan with only one eye open.

“Exalted?” he asked. Iktan seemed a bit annoyed already, having to explain everything that seemed, to him, fairly obvious.

“They are like armors, but with no one inside, “ he sighed. “They sometimes trade with us, Itzel. And they tolerated the Pact. But they are very protective of their city now, after the beam fell back to the earth.”

Arlen nodded, and then fell silent, lowering his head a little bit.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. Iktan pressed his lips together, but shook his head.

“It’s fine.”

The sylvari got up, dusting off his clothes and looking for his boots and gloves, frowning when he was unable to find them. Iktan stopped playing again, following him with his eyes around.

“You should rest now,” he advised. “At least, until your wounds are closed and your strength, replenished.”

“Where’s my armor?” Arlen asked, ignoring him. Iktan frowned.

“Torn to shreds,” he explained. Arlen paused, turning to see him again. “You should grow some more, before trying again to go south.”

The sylvari looked at his arms and legs, fully bandaged. It would take a while to heal, and to grow some new armor to protect himself on the long road. But he shook his head, sitting back beside the fire.

“I won’t go south again,” he muttered, enjoying the warmth. Iktan cocked his head to the side. “You told me what happened. I don’t think I need to see it now. Thank you, again.”

“It was nothing,” Iktan murmured, puzzled.

It was too dangerous to go on his own, Arlen thought. If he had to use the Soundless mantras after all that time, the Tree might know what else he might find down there, anyway. And he’d rather not find out if the residual call was enough to make him lose his mind - answer what was left of Mordremoth’s call further south. It was a mystery he’d rather not solve, now that he was out of its thrall.

“Do you know how to play the lute?” Iktan asked suddenly, showing off his instrument. Arlen glanced his way, shaking his head. “Do you wish to learn? Until your wounds are better, and you grow some armor.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, Arlen nodded, enthusiastically.


	10. Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the return of an old fan favorite.
> 
> Also, leave it to me to make a pun out of a blink-and-you-miss-it fake name.

Lion’s Arch was changed.

It was so… _bright_. The seedy taverns Arlen knew and worked on were gone, replaced by immaculately white buildings, and dramatic statues in the shape of diverse sea critters. Unsurprisingly, there were no Karka statues in sight, despite the little, deadly crabs nesting around in every hidden crevice, clattering its maws and little claws on the newly painted cast.

He suspected he just might had been away for too long. Rumors of Lion’s Arch destruction were rampant on his travels, and he had met some high-profile refugees who hired his services as a bodyguard. But, even in his more dramatic estimates, he didn’t expect the city to be completely rebuilt from scratch. As he passed by the Mystic Forge and the Bank he felt uneasy; there were not a lot of shady spots to hide on now, and gone were the covered bridges where he used to hide and wait for his targets to pass by. He felt, in some way, outdated.

“Excuse me,” a Lionsguard called, and even if Arlen had gone legal a long time ago, he still tensed up upon her approach. “Do you need directions? You seem lost.”

“I’m looking for the Lion’s Shadow Inn,” he murmured, trying not to appear shady. Even if he knew that even knowing about that place was, in on itself, shady.

The Lionsguard seemed to think the same, as she narrowed her eyes even so slightly. But, still, she seemed more puzzled than suspicious.

“The place was sold to the Guild Initiative after the battle for Lion’s Arch,” she explained, crossing her arms. “Did you recently awaken?”

“No,” Arlen said, blinking. “I travel a lot. Was away for a while.”

“A long while, it seems,” the Lionsguard remarked. “The previous owner opened up the Lion’s Shadow Bed and Breakfast, however, of you're interested on a cheap place to stay. It's on the Postern Ward, right beside the road towards where the old inn used to be. But I’d rather look for a place to stay closer to the Grand Piazza. It’s not really a safe place for travelers.”

“Okay,” Arlen murmured, trying to leave as fast as he could. The Lionsguard, however, grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Hold up,” she said, looking up towards the tall sylvari. “May I get your name, traveler?”

“Bleiz,” he lied on a hurry, barely even breathing. The Lionsguard nodded, scribbling the name on a piece of parchment.

“Very well, Bleiz,” she said. “You better stay out of trouble during your stay.”

“Sure,” Arlen murmured, finally getting away, but feeling the Lionsguard eyes fixed on his back.

His name, his real name, was probably on a few lists already anyway. Back when Lion’s Arch was really Lion’s Arch, the guards were slow to act if he didn’t attack any of the members of the Captain’s Council or their friends, after all. Now, it seemed that even that basic fact of life had changed.

He didn’t have a clear idea about why he had even got back to Lion’s Arch. He had enemies around the city’s underbelly, both from his days of working there, and on his days of saving foolish travelers from the city’s thugs. Not to mention the Lionsguard - always on the lookout for the likes of him. But even if the buildings were new, and the streets were cleaner, there was something soothing about the familiar profiles of the mountains around the harbor that made him feel nostalgic.

Lion’s Arch was the only place he grew to call home. An unsafe home, filled with dark memories of actions past, but a home nevertheless. Deep within himself, he awaited Innkeeper Aela’s welcome - that stern woman with an eye for less-than-legal business, who turned a blind eye to his antics as long as he had the coin to rent a room and pay for his beer.

At the very least, he hoped she had survived the attack. Any remnant of his old life, before hitting the road for so long, was a welcome sight.

The sounds of the city began to fade as Arlen walked towards the Postern Ward, and the streets became less clean, the roads less traveled. The city even began to show some if its old charms; dark alleyways that ended in abrupt walls, or in long drops towards the harabor bellow - perfect to indulge in illegality. As he walked, he took a moment to feel the moist sea breeze, with its smells of both freedom and the pest from the ships. Maybe, before heading towards the inn, he’d take a minute to get acquaintance with the city’s new profiles. After all, even if he wasn’t on the business of killing anymore, he was still a bodyguard. He needed to get a couple of coppers to his name, some way or another.

It was a lucky thing he wasn’t afraid of the shadows anymore. They welcomed him, almost with open arms, as shady silhouettes moved out of his way, and whispers were quickly suffocated as he walked by. As the sun set in Lion’s Arch, and its newly renovated walls fell in disrepair, the past seemed to linger around Arlen. In a thick, round window, in an old door, in the cracked pavement under his feet. In the smell of rum and charr whisky, and human waste. In the sweet, sickly smell of old wood, eaten up by termites and the cruel, unpredictable tides. In the smell of faraway flowers.

The sweet, sweet smell of flowers. A smell that made him stop dead on his tracks, breathing in deeply as he closed his eyes. It masked everything else. It made him lose his train of thought. It was so familiar, yet so old. And despite its sweetness, it filled him with a strange mixture of yearning, and dread.

“It is you,” a voice called, in a coarse, desperate whisper. Arlen opened his eyes on a hurry, turning towards a dark alleyway. “After all this time…”

Something crawled towards him, and Arlen felt paralyzed as he advanced. Still beautiful without compare, even in dirty, tattered clothes, stained with mud and blood - not only his own blood. His luminescence wasn’t bright enough anymore to light up the alley as he walked, dragging himself with immense difficulty, limping a little, supporting his weight on the walls at each side. His jewels were gone, as was his majesty, and pride. But his eyes were still lit up with incredible intelligence, and a deep evil intent.

“I knew it was destiny,” muttered Morrissey, falling, breathless, on Arlen’s arms. “I knew I’d find you, Dearheart.”

And he silently collapsed, as Arlen tried to hold him despite the chaos on his mind.

…

The night was clear, and the moon reflected on the inner harbor the exact same way it used to, years ago. Arlen contemplated the scenery, deep in tangled thoughts, as he smoked a cigarette for the first time in what seemed forever. Everytime he inhaled the smoke, both the tip of his cigarette and his thorns lit up in sync.

He couldn’t help but notice that Morrissey lit up at the same time as him even after all the time passed, weakingly lighting up the sheets where he laid. While he slept, he looked as gorgeous as ever, but Arlen could see that time hadn’t been kind to the Courtier. His arms were scarred and his hands were harsher, coarser than what he remembered, and he was even skinnier than before, barely filling up what was left of his silky attire. It looked like, just this once, his desperate situation wasn’t an act, or an illusion.

The hissing sound of the bedsheets caught his attention, and he turned towards the, up until now, sleeping sylvari. His eyelids fluttered open, and he contemplated his surroundings with mild confusion, until he saw Arlen, smoking on the windowsill. He smiled.

“Hey there,” he murmured, turning and facing him. The bedsheets contourning around him like the finest clothing. “Since when do you smoke, darling?”

“A while,” Arlen replied, barely moving his lips. Morrissey blinked once, sitting up.

“It suits you,” he said, running one hand on his hair, fixing up a wilting petal. “As does that deep voice you have now.”

Arlen didn’t answer, attentive to his movements. Morrissey cocked his head to the side.

“Why are you all the way over there?” he questioned, glancing over the bed he laid on. “There’s room for two.”

The other sylvari shook his head, putting his cigarette out. Morrissey frowned.

“Love, believe me,” he swore, a hand over his chest. “I’m in no position to do you any harm. In fact, I owe you my life. Why are you so scared?”

After a moment of hesitation, and as Morrissey palmed the bed beside him, Arlen got up from the windowsill, walking towards him and sitting down on the mattress’ free space. Morrissey lay down, smiling lazily from the pillows, and with a sigh, Arlen did so as well, contemplating the ceiling, trying to ignore the other sylvari’s gaze, fixed on him.

“I used to want you dead so bad,” Morrissey murmured, stretching out a hand, caressing Arlen’s cheek. “I imagined I found you, and chained you, and tore you down, bit by bit. I was in a dark place, you know? After you left, everything… collapsed around me.”

Once again, Arlen didn’t answer, contemplating the ceiling, ignoring the soft, tender touch on his face.

“But now you’re here… and I see clearly again,” the sylvari cooed, dragging himself closer. His smell was still sweet, and his body, skinny and malnourished as it was now, was still warm, and inviting. “My gorgeous Soundless hunter. Don’t you feel it? The pulling of destiny?”

Finally, Arlen addressed the sylvari beside him, his face stern, his body, tense. Everything was just like before now. Past and present seemed to play on each other in a different way. Like the same notes on different scales. Morrissey was helpless and tender, and he was stronger, older. Wiser.

Maybe, just maybe, it was destiny. What other explanation could be? In the vast world, in his years of traveling, they had found each other again. Those same eyes, those same lips, that same body that so perfectly fit between his arms. Perhaps, in the end, Morrissey was right all along.

He turned, and pulled Morrissey closer. He felt his smile, victorious, as he pressed his lips on the Courtier’s. But caution, fear, was an alien feeling, as he felt his blood pumping, and his breathing racing, and his hands tore down the silk so effortlessly, and Morrissey’s breathing turned to sighs, and his sighs, to soft moans of pleasure. Those moans had, still, the same effect on him; they overrode his constant alert, and compelled him to satiate his hunger.

That hunger he didn’t know he had. That hunger that seemed to awaken only as he kissed Morrissey’s neck, as he felt his hands on the back of his head, or leaving markings as he buried his nails on his back. Reduced to a beast of instinct, eating and drinking to his heart’s contempt, unknown to him if he would ever get to be so fulfilled again.

He got rid of his coat and shirt in a hurry, as Morrissey’s hands ran through his body, feeling the new, strange scars he had gotten over his travels. Before he could sink in his lover’s embrace once more, the sylvari pushed him still, contemplating his body and smiling; a crooked gesture of pure malice.

“Strip for me, my darling,” he commanded, and Arlen felt compelled to obey, getting rid of his boots and pants before laying on top of the Courtier.

The feeling of their bodies touching was almost electrical. Arlen sighed, touching his forehead with Morrissey’s, and moving on top of him, feeling the pleasure build up and his cock getting harder with each thrust. He wasn’t aware of how much he had expected that moment. He wasn’t sure if it was what he really needed. But the sensations were too much for him to bear, and what he needed suddenly wasn’t as important as what he wanted.

“Love,” Morrissey murmured, between moans. “I want to feel you inside of me.”

Arlen grunted, nodding as he moved between Morrissey’s legs. And little by little, push by push, he gave the Courtier what he wanted.

A mess of gasps and sighs was all it took, with Morrissey’s legs up on his waist, and his hands clawing at his back. Arlen refused to think anymore, back to that dark room that had been his home once, where pleasure abounded and his freedom was scarce. But there wasn’t Mordrem, or asura, or Courtiers who wished him dead. There was only Morrissey, arching bellow him as he cried out his pleasure, clenching around his twitching cock, pushing him towards an early release that left him drained, collapsing on top of his lover.

They embraced each other in the darkness. Where Morrissey belonged, and Arlen had learned to live in.

“I missed you so much, Dearheart,” Morrissey murmured, still panting. “You’re the only one for me.”

Arlen forced himself to pull out slowly, collapsing once more on the empty side of the bed. Eyes closed, listening to their breathing steadying, and Morrissey’s soothing voice. A lullaby for his confused mind.

“I thought of you everyday since you left me,” he recalled, moving closer, more than happy to be between Arlen’s arms once more. “Of your beauty, and your naivete. My love, my Dearheart.”

A warning ringed on Arlen’s mind. He forced himself to open his eyes, contemplating the Courtier so comfortably nested between his arms.

“Now we can travel back… together,” he murmured, half- asleep. “We can rebuild the Court - the right way. I will be your loyal Knight, and you will be the Grand Duke. It was destiny that I found you again. You belong to me, and I belong to you. In the Nightmare, fore-...”

Arlen pushed him away, and Morrissey whined as he threw him a puzzled look. Arlen sat up, contemplating the mess of clothes and dirty bed sheets their passion had left behind.

“Get dressed,” he ordered. Morrissey blinked, and narrowed his eyes.

“Why,” he questioned. Arlen threw him a dangerous look.

“Get dressed, now,” he ordered again. With a disgruntled face, Morrissey obeyed, gathering what was left of his clothes and putting them on.

“Done,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Now leave.”

A pause, as Arlen clenched his jaw. And Morrissey chuckled.

“Leave?” he laughed, raising a brow. “Now that I found you? I don’t think so, darling.”

Arlen got up from the bed, glaring. Morrissey’s smile vanished.

“The Court doesn’t exist anymore,” he grunted, shaking his head. “There’s nothing to come back to.”

“Isn’t that wonderful?” Morrissey insisted, his smile dangerous now. “We could grow our own Court, free from the weak weeds who tried to separate us in the past. Sariel is dead, so is the Grand Duchess. It could be ours, Dearheart. It’s destiny.”

Everytime Morrissey proclaimed destiny, Arlen shuddered. Because he might be right, but Arlen refused to accept it. So he shook his head, pointing towards the door.

“You lost it, Mozz,” he murmured. “Leave now.”

“I won’t leave without you, _Dearheart_ ,” Morrissey hissed. “I will never, ever leave you. We belong in the Nightmare, together.”

“There is no more Nightmare,” Arlen insisted, wishing he had dropped his daggers closer by. “And I don’t want to go back.”

“It is our destiny, you fool!” Morrissey cried out, waving his hand and summoning illusions to his aid, and they spoke in time. “You will restore what was destroyed! You are not a Dreamer anymore; stop acting like one!”

Arlen saw only one way out left.

The glass shattered and rained outside the inn, as Morrissey fell out the window. Right before he touched the ground, he stopped on the air; a magical, purple wind saving him from his demise, before finally dropping down on the dirt. He got up, feeling the sting of the cuts the shattered glass left on his arms, and growling towards the broken window at the second floor.

“I will make you see, Dearheart!” he yelled, pointing towards the silhouette on the window. “You belong to me! I'll show you! I will kill you if I need to!”

As the Courtier yelled, Arlen lit up another cigarette, feeling the icy wind coming in through the broken window. The feeling of Morrissey's touch, and his sweet aroma, still clinging to his own skin.

There wasn’t a way out. Even after years of running, he found out it still wasn’t enough to earn his freedom.


	11. One last job

It was extremely rare for Arlen to wonder about his clients. It had been rare before; when the job included a life on his consciousness, and it was now, that he tried to act tough as he shoved thieves aside for his wealthy clients to go from place to place in Lion’s Arch. He valued his privacy, after all, and tried not to be so curious about other people’s business in turn.

He didn’t know -and didn’t much care anyway-, for example, what Morrissey did whenever they were apart. And it was a long time; after a night of passion spent in sloppy kisses and hard thrusts, the former Courtier kept going on and on about his plans to take over the Twilight Arbor, promising Arlen more power than he could ever imagine if only he consented to _give in_ , the way he did between the sheets. Arlen wouldn’t have that, and their encounters always finished suddenly, and often ended up violently. Dumping Morrissey off the window became some sort of strange routine for him, when the other sylvari’s presence became too overwhelming. Or a little bit unbearable. He disappeared for a while after each of such encounters.

It was those little things, their recurrency, what made Arlen feel like the pieces of his life were, slowly, falling into place. In some twisted way, the force of habit anchored him to Lion’s Arch; the tides on the harbor, the sneer of the rich and noble towards everything and everyone, the hidden knives and venomous needles, even the refugees -some too proud to beg, some starved enough to plead for a couple coppers to rub together- and the maddening sway of Morrissey’s hips as he strutted across the room.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was a life; far away from the endless wars and the never-ending struggles of the Dreamers.

_Dreamers_. Despite the years of self-imposed isolation, Arlen was still able to tell at one glance if a sylvari was a Dreamer or not. He didn’t have the contempt the Court had for them - far from it, he was more indifferent to their cause than anything. But he still felt the impulse to distrust them. Their fierce adherence to a cause, to a plan something else had tailored for and imposed into them, made Arlen wary, even a bit dismissive to them. The feeling had grown over the years, even more so after his stay on the Twilight Arbor.

He realized, too late, that he had been deep in silent contemplation for too long, when the sylvari sitting across from him softly cleared his throat. Arlen forced himself to focus on him again, briefly meeting his nervous, soft pink eyes.

“I realize my request might be too much to handle,” the sylvari said, a bit breathless as Arlen stared, blankly, at him. “But I was told I should contact you, and only you, for such a task. I’m only asking for a safe passage - a one-way ticket to Elona. I can pay for your passage back, if you wish.”

Arlen blinked, as the other sylvari kept holding visual contact in a way that made him uneasy.

“By the Briarthorn,” Arlen muttered, leaning back on his chair. “Elona? Do you have an estimate of how expensive that is?”

“I do,” the other sylvari nodded, swallowing hard. “But as I said, I have the money. I’ve acquired some coin helping out the locals with their animals. I’m certain I can pay whatever cost I need to.”

As the young Dreamer spoke, Arlen’s eyes wandered away from him, towards a fern dog that sat beside him. Tail up in attention, and beady eyes fixed on him, as if it was measuring him, somehow. Arlen frowned. Rangers were a sensitive bunch.

“I just need some protection; I’ve never sail across the sea, and I don’t feel safe among strangers,” the sylvari murmured, sighing deep. “I realize you’re a Soundless, but I… I thought you could understand my conundrum. I know I must go there, no matter how impossible it might seem; my Dream showed me the way.”

Something made Arlen pause, looking up from the fern dog towards the sylvari and his pleading eyes. It took him a while to understand what he had found so unbelievable; the fact that his first instinct was to consider him, correctly so, a Soundless, rather than a Nightmare Courtier. It was a silly feeling of hope, or tranquility. Sometimes he began to believe Morrissey’s words, those sweet whispers in the middle of the night, about greatness and return to some lost, glorious past he couldn’t recall. And the fact that such a young stranger knew there was another possibility, another way, was… _refreshing_.

It could’ve been, of course, that he was too young to understand what the Court was. It could be that he had never met a Courtier before, and therefore couldn’t confuse him for one. But Arlen found himself stiffing up on his seat, leaning slightly forward.

“A thousand gold pieces. Half pay upfront, half pay once the job is finished,” he murmured, as the younger sylvari’s face lit up. “Plus the passage towards Elona. The airships are focused on military targets, so they’re out of the question. A ship will have to do.”

“A ship is enough,” the sylvari said, a bright smile slowly curving his lips upwards. “I mean, a ship is perfect.”

The young Dreamer fetched a leather pouch from his belt, leaving it on the table and opening it up to count his money. Arlen couldn’t help but to widen his eyes at the sight of thousands of gold coins within it.

“This should be it,” the sylvari nodded, pushing the pouch towards Arlen. “By the way, my name is Naoise.”

He offered his hand, at both parts enthusiastic and nervous. Arlen doubted for a second before stretching the hand he was offered, grabbing the pouch with his free hand and stuffing it into his leather coat.

“Name’s Arlen,” he murmured. “Stay put. I’ll be back in an hour tops.”

As the two shook hands, a nearby patron turned to look at them. It was a gorgeous, young human, dressed in silk and gold, looking a little out of place in the dirty inn’s bar, despite nobody paying the slightest bit of attention to him. As he glared towards the joint hands, his hazelnut eyes lit up with unbound hatred and malevolence, and for only a second, turned to a bright pink that seemed to shine brighter the darker it got around him. But as Arlen moved towards the exit, pondering about Dreamers and Soundless and Courtiers, the figure quietly snuck out to the backdoor, disappearing like a mirage in the desert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arlen's adventures will continue on The Long Road Home! Coming soon to this very profile.
> 
> So... this was it. This story has been with me for a while now, and it's crazy to finally see it end. I believe it's the first non-oneshot story I've ever finish tied with such a nice bow. I'm proud of myself!
> 
> This story is only but a part of the massive universe I've created, thanks to Guild Wars 2's amazing world and complex characters. It's really inspiring to be part of such a world, even if it's nothing official.
> 
> And, of course, I need to thank Ren for her constant support, and her beautiful characters and amazing ideas. Without you, this gw2 au wouldn't be nearly as alive as it is! Naoise is hers, btw!
> 
> See you on the next chapter of this story, and hopefully on many more stories to come.


End file.
